


|hypotheses for geniuses|

by littlekaracan



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Don't you worry, OH OH I KNOW this was a prompt by milky-diari on tumblr and i was interested and hyped up, Time Travel, also i'm a complete fucking masochist, bois gonna travel through time, god this will have so many vine references, i got myself into this and i'm enjoying everything, i'll make sure of it, just connor, that's it idk what more to tag, this is basically the au of connor working in some kinda... swat division or something, to be specific, with 2018!hank, yep you read that right
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-05-25 02:37:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14967296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlekaracan/pseuds/littlekaracan
Summary: If it’s not him getting thrown back in time, it’s somebody else, Connor reminded himself. That was enough to convince him that he was inclined to take the part. His mind had been probed by CyberLife before, and he had seen them separating parts from parts, too. Not every other android had that experience. He could handle it again if it meant nobody else would have to.If they don’t send anyone, Kamski might never break through, too. That was his main concern and that was why he didn’t say a word against the mission in general. Never being created was not a very pleasant thought, not only to him but to most androids, too. Maybe some people contemplated whether life would’ve been better had Kamski just become an AI mechanic or something, but it was more or less clear to Connor – if he wants all of them to live, he’s going.He – just like the others - had no other choice, and that was irritating, but it was also nothing new.God, things really weren’t changing as fast as they would’ve liked.





	1. Connor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have 3 years of school physics class experience but nowhere in there did they teach us about time travel so i made some shit up, please tell me if i went completely the wrong way lmao

A coin to Connor was not a hobby, nor was it an impulsive obsession. He’d have it out before a mission or a meeting, sure, but also when he simply had nothing to do. It was a mindless process at that point – pull out a quarter, play with it and land it safely in his pocket. He couldn’t remember the first time he did it, and he couldn’t tell why he was doing it, but it came to him as naturally as blinking or breathing came to other people. In the end, he concluded that it was not only a good habit, but also a way of self-checking: if he throws and doesn’t drop the coin, everything in his system is functioning and the day should be carried out according to plan. Connor was in favour of planning: he liked having a schedule he could stick to, he liked knowing when and for what he was needed, and, well, he liked having some free time, too. Even if he didn’t exactly know what to do with it.

Not that he’d have a lot of time to spend playing with his coin while he was in the police station: there was always some kind of assignment he could do, some way he could help, and, before he knew it, he’d be taking stacked (ergo – forgotten) paperwork off Hank’s table with sighs of disapproval. Connor would worry about him in the mornings, to tell the truth. He’d never know what Hank was doing, but he didn’t exactly want to take out a window again. One thing that Connor had realized while being a deviant was that glass was… pretty expensive.

He tried calling, but Hank would usually be either out cold or too hungover to answer. Once Connor attempted to persist, ringing him for an hour with no breaks until he finally got an answer. Well, safe to say that he doesn’t do that anymore. One session of Hank yelling – and cussing - about how androids don’t understand that humans need sleep was more than enough.

Connor had just sat down, 8 a.m. sharp, and Chris had already scooted over to his table with his chair, looking like he just came back from the dead.

Chris rested his head on Connor’s table.  “God, I am going to _die_.” _Speaking about needing sleep_.

Out of all the officers, Chris was probably the most comfortable with having an android around after the whole uprising business ( _how_ was a mystery, since androids did wave a gun in his face at some point, or so Connor had heard, but he was definitely not about to complain now or ever). Still, even with that in mind Connor could hardly imagine him dozing off on said android’s paperwork under normal circumstances. He kind of wanted to come to his documents’ rescue, but decided pulling them from under Chris’ limp body and have him hit his head against the hard surface of the table would be a tad too cruel. Instead, he commented:

“You look horrible, Officer.”

Chris made a noise that sounded somewhere between a snort and a groan.

“Thanks.” He barely lifted his head to look at Connor and put it down again. “Hey, Connor, can I ask a favour?”

“What is it?”

“Technically, my shift is done. But - guess what - Hank’s supposed to take over today and Damian’s got the flu, and I haven’t slept for three days, you get me?” Chris squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, for convincing purposes or instinct alike. “I won’t make it if he shows up in the afternoon again. God, I won’t fucking make it.”

“You want me to cover your shift?” Connor clarified. Chris clicked his tongue.

“No, I want you to cover the part of _Hank’s_ shift that he’s sleeping away.”

“Right.” Connor glanced at Chris’ slightly gaping mouth, then at his – thankfully – still dry papers. He watched the officer yawn and hurriedly went for damage threat reduction. “Okay. I’ll do it. If you don’t drool on my paper.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re a lifesaver.” Chris barely sat up straight and wheeled himself back to his table as Connor rushed to stack the documents into more or less neat piles to prevent any more potential saliva-related accidents. He oversaw a few names and descriptions through his fingers – homicide, homicide, homicide. _Gloomy_. He flipped through a whole bunch of ‘Jane Doe’s and ‘John Doe’s with mild and machine-like curiosity – maybe those were somehow related. It was too early to tell, those could be completely different cases, but Connor was slowly becoming more and more of a man of theory with every day he worked in DPD.

“Hey, Connor?” Chris called one last time. Connor turned to see the officer in his coat and belongings he’d brought to the night shift in his hands, about to leave. Or about to collapse. One of the two.

“Yes?”

“It’s pretty empty here today. Don’t fall asleep. Don’t follow my path,” Chris whispered menacingly, eyes wide. Connor chuckled as the officer’s steps echoed in the empty corridor.

“That’s not an option, I’m afraid,” he muttered to himself. At least Chris didn’t pass out. On the other hand, he probably should’ve made sure he wasn’t going to drive in that state.

Oh well.

Pushing the paper stack closer and starting the computer, he bit down his lip, focusing his eyes on the screen and the screen only.

Connor used to be able to work and work and work before, without a break and without fail. Should they have put him in front of a computer a few months ago, he probably would’ve gladly sat there and typed for the entirety of the two-hundred-something years that his battery is supposed to last. Now, though, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to do it for a week straight. He wouldn’t get tired, _that’s not it_ , Connor told himself. He couldn’t exactly say what the reason was, though, either. It probably came with his deviancy, as did other wonderful things like tears that would start to well up in his eyes if someone punched him in the face, and the inescapable need to pet Sumo the second he saw the damn dog. All that in a neat package, and that package would pull him from work from time to time to look through the window for a few minutes, stare at a wall and think about nothing in particular, say a word or two to Hank, maybe pull out the coin again and throw it around a bit before he buried himself in work again. Lovely.

Hank would do the same thing, despite not being, well, a machine. If he was at work, even if half a day late, he was going to do the work and nothing less. It was more than easy for Connor to see why others respected him. Even easier to respect him himself.

Connor shook his head to clear it of thoughts and fished his coin out of his pocket – just for a second, he thought. To make it easier to work with an empty mind. He slung the quarter up into the air, caught it between two fingers and flicked it onto his knuckles. The coin rolled up and down for a while before Connor flipped his palm and, upon catching it, tossed it up one last time-

A hand above Connor’s eye level closed around the coin and pulled it away. He reached for it instinctively before letting his arm fall to the table upon seeing who it was.

“I’m gonna end up taking all of your money from you at some point. Quarter by quarter.” Hank snorted, his eyes drifting to all of the paper on the table. “You’re playing with it instead of working anyway.”

“I was-!” Connor protested, but ended up cutting himself off in surprise. “I thought you were asleep.”

“Lo and behold, I’m not as much of a useless piece of shit as you’d want me to be.” The corners of Hank’s lips twitched up.

Swallowing a chuckle, Connor assured: “Personally, I don’t think you’re a useless piece of shit, Lieutenant.”

“Personally… What are you, an assistant?”

“Do you want me to be?” He tilted his head.

“Okay, I’ve had enough of your smarts for half-a-year at the least.” Hank sighed and collapsed in his chair. “We gotta go meet Jeffrey, he wants to talk.”

“What about?” Connor stood up abruptly, and evened out the papers, pushing them behind the computer. He always kept files he hadn’t looked through there – not that he had much. Order just felt right.

“I have no clue.”

“He didn’t tell you?” Connor stopped in his tracks and leaned back on the table, a bit lost. _That’s new_. “Did we mess something up, or…?”

“I told you. No clue.” Hank stood up as well, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Clearly, he didn’t enjoy emergency meetings all that much. Well, there wasn’t much to enjoy about them, when Connor really thought about it. “He just said some crap that didn’t make sense and told us to hurry, putting it shortly.”

Connor didn’t know if losing patience was something he was capable of, but he was close to finding out. “What exactly did he say, Lieutenant?”

“That Kamski invented time travel,” Hank announced dryly.

Connor raised his eyebrows at first, and then reached up to his temple to reset his ossicles. Must be a malfunction or – maybe something’s off with translation and that’s affecting sound. He’d checked it not that long ago, though, for a problem to occur now is rather strange-

“No need for that, you heard me fine.” The detective snickered at Connor’s confusion. “He said ‘time travel’, clear as day.”

Connor furrowed his brows. Even the concept itself sounded like a wild hypothesis. An illogical one, too. Travelling through time itself…

“Geniuses are not to be doubted, but-“

“But that sounds like a steaming load of bullshit, I agree,” Hank finished. “That’s why I think he just doesn’t want to tell us what’s going on. If time travel is a code for anything, I’ve never heard of it.”

_Or forgotten. That’s a possibility._

“We should hurry, then, if that meeting is going to be serious,” Connor concluded dutifully. Hank yawned, shaking his head not so much in disagreement as in pure frustration.

“I decide to wake up like I’m trying to get my shit together for one morning, and he dumps a meeting on me. What’s next, a mass conference?”

Connor bit back a smile and went for Fowler’s office, hearing the detective slowly but surely making his way behind him. “Needless to say,” he commented, “Mornings do seem to dislike you as much as you dislike them. It just seems like after your suspension you behaved for a while and went back to sleeping.”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious.”

“Sorry, sorry.”

“I kinda, you know, wanna keep my job.” He snorted. “Jeffrey had me under his almighty eye for a while.”

“That shouldn’t be the only reason to get up in the morning.”

Connor was met with only guilty silence.

Despite Hank making it clear over and over how much he hated life, the universe, mornings and everything, Connor could see traces of self-taught scar-stitching somewhere in there. Whether it was not getting drunk at night, occasionally hanging out with his co-workers (with Connor, most of the time – the android appreciated it nevertheless) or showing up to work on schedule for the first time in a long while today - it was all progress, definite progress. It was slow, sure, but nobody heals fast. The steady pace was okay, as long as it was there. Even the pauses of it. He wasn’t stumbling backwards, that was good. Maybe he was making peace with himself. And Connor wouldn’t push him to talk about that type of thing. 

When they found themselves in front of the office door, Connor remembered his little method of self-sharpening.

“Could I, by any chance, get my quarter back?” He asked, grabbing the door handle before Hank could.

“No.”

Connor chuckled and opened the door. “Fair enough.” Not like he couldn’t fish one lost coin out of the mud somewhere outside the station.

The clicking of the glass coming into contact with its frame was a rather pleasant sound, shame he’d never noticed it before, Connor thought, scanning the room immediately after taking one step inside. Fowler was sitting behind the desk and staring intently at the wall – or, rather, listening to the conversation taking place to his side between two police officers and a strict-posed lady with her hair in a bun so tight Connor could almost feel his own hair being pulled. He hadn’t seen her before – maybe she was some sort of forensic scientist, he wondered, dressed in a white suit as she was. Hank had told him before that prying into people’s pasts via facial recognition was at the very least a little rude if that person wasn’t a suspect, so he’d dialed down on that method a bit. Besides, she was probably going to get introduced either way.

“Hank, Connor, how kind of you two to join us,” Fowler snapped him out of his thoughts, making no effort to mask the clear displeasure in his voice.

“Apologies, Captain,” Connor rushed before Hank could answer with an equally sarcastic remark. “We got caught up in something. It won’t happen again.”

“Doubt it.” A shadow of a rather tense smile passed over Fowler’s face as he gestured for them to sit down.

Connor pulled his tie down a bit instinctively before speaking: “Lieutenant tells me you said… something about time travel?” It felt funny saying something like that. Like they were in a movie.

As the conversation between the scientist and the officers quieted down by his side, Fowler sighed and laced his fingers together on the table.

“I know it sounds absurd. I didn’t believe any of it at first, either,” he assured and nodded his head at the woman with the bun. “This is Ms. Jones, she’s a radio astronomer. She arrived at the station in the early hours of the night with her discovery. Personally, I know nothing about radio waves and how on Earth it may connect to science fiction, so I’ll just let her talk.”

Jones stood up and cleared her throat. She looked very collected for somebody that spent the night in the police station, Connor noticed. The only clue that suggested she was trying to get some rest was the slightly smudged eyeliner in the corner of her eye. Maybe she did sleep a bit, then.

“Firstly, this has proven to not at all be science fiction anymore.” She lectured Fowler briefly and turned back at them. Her skeptical gaze slipped down Connor’s LED. He bowed his head, letting a strand of hair to smoothly hang over the ring. It was a meaningless effort to hide his androidhood, but a rather effective way of letting her know that he doesn’t expect her to treat him any different than she would a human. An easy hint, which she got and continued speaking.

“Yesterday, I was tinkering with my equipment, doing overtime, more or less. And at some point I noticed I was receiving a series of repetitive and unusual electromagnetic waves. I thought at first those were whistlers-…“ Upon seeing a couple confused faces, she evaluated: “Whistlers are waves caused by lightning. Now, what was off with the ones I was getting… See, the defining chacteristics of whistlers are their low frequency, dispersion and a descending tone. Everything was fine until I checked the tone, and…” Jones clicked a few buttons on Fowler’s computer, who watched without a single complaint as she pulled up a few graphs on the screen. She gestured toward the nearly-even lines in the graph. “I saw that it was too equal to resemble anything close to a whistler. Curious as I am, I converted the waves into sound – there’s equipment for that – and…”

She went silent before clicking another button on the keyboard.

The sound that resonated from the speaker was a voice. It was muffled and distorted, but it was undeniably a voice. Saying something. _It’s saying something_. Connor leaned closer, focused on trying to get an analysis. He allowed white noise to openly get inside to get better sound. Maybe a voice identification.

Without warning, the volume skyrocketed and the change hit him _hard_. He jerked back, reaching to his ears, completely overwhelmed. Rare occasion.

 _Jesus Christ_ , he mouthed. Or maybe he said it out loud, he couldn’t tell. For a moment, there was only deafening silence before his hearing returned to normal. He thought nobody had noticed his little crisis until Hank elbowed him from the side.

“You okay?”

“I’m. I’m fine, Lieutenant,” Connor said in a calmer tone than he expected. He turned back at the scientist, who was watching the room expectantly, and took a breath. “Just fine.”

“Okay, let me convert that to human speech in a second.” She shrugged and pulled up another file. “Just so you know why my cat is probably deaf now.”

 _That makes two of us_ , Connor thought and leaned in once more. This time the voice that came out of the speakers was somewhat recognizable. Connor couldn’t tell who it was, but there was no way in hell he was going for analysis again. So he resorted to listening. And that told him everything he needed to know.

_My name is Elijah Kamski, it is 2018 and I am in Detroit as of now. This is a sound test. Can you hear me? Over._

Silence settled over the room. Connor simply sat there, frozen, watching everyone look absolutely floored. He was… astonished, to say the least. Time travel, _time travel_ , it was so illogical. And here it was, and Connor could hear proof of it himself.

If this _was_ proof.

Before he could open his mouth, Hank broke the silence.

“`Over`,” he sneered. “Where is he, in a spy movie?”

“How do we know this is a message through time and not a pre-recorded file transmitted twenty years too late?” Connor asked, opting for a theory that was a little more on the rational side.

“Very simple.” Jones turned away from the computer before turning on another file and smiling at them grimly, but with a sense of achievement somewhere in her face. “A pre-recorded file wouldn’t answer if you talked back to it.”

This time the audio was much clearer, evidently recorded in this time.

_My name is Elise Jones. I’m in Detroit as well, but it’s currently 2038. Is this a form of radio communication? Who are you trying to reach?_

“You… reinvented a way to send a wave to _him_?” One of the officers Connor knew from only looks dropped her jaw.

Noticing a few more glances of disbelief, Jones sighed. “Standing on the shoulders of other scientists and using their methods to come back at them is, quite literally, the base of my job. Reverse-engineering is hard, I’ll give myself that, but not as hard as it is coming up with the initial project.” She clicked the last file in her drive. “And, sure enough, I got a message back immediately.”

_Yes. I am trying to reach no one in particular. I need some help, Ms. Jones. Or- Is it Mrs.?_

“Fuckin’ class he’s got there, you gotta admit,” Hank commented again. “Asking for marital status, first things first.” Connor couldn’t help cracking a little grin before returning his attention on Jones.

“What kind of help did he ask for?” Fowler questioned, tapping his pen on the desk as a form of distraction from the initial shock.

“Well.” Jones pulled her drive out of the computer and threw it into the pocket of her coat before joining them at the table. “I exchanged a few more messages. He said it was taking a lot, and he meant a _lot_ of energy to send messages, so he had to be brief. I understood. I’m pretty sure everybody’s lights were dimmed at least in my neighborhood. My poor cat, scared out of his mind.” She chuckled before continuing. “In short, he says he’s hit a wall in his project and needs today to send him an example. Interpret that as you will.”

“Which project?” Connor asked, dreading already knowing the answer.

“CyberLife,” she answered dryly and looked up straight at him. “He can’t figure out androids. Well- not androids as a whole, but the priority system. Consciousness. All that. I’m not too sure.”

Connor opened his mouth, defending his creator before he could think twice.

“Kamski discovered time travel before he was done with his androids? That doesn’t sound right.”

“Even if you’re a genius, you aren’t gonna be a jack of all trades.” Jones shrugged off his concern. “Just of a… single specific one. Put me in front of a mechanic, and that mechanic will grind me into the ground with a wrench. If time travelling seemed easier to Kamski, I’m not gonna question it.”

“And he wants us to send him an example-“ Hank started.

“A prototype, as he put it - to stand as a copy of his capability,” Jones ended. She squirmed in her chair. “I brought the matter here because, well, I don’t live with an android. And, personally, I wouldn’t risk it anyway. I thought you people could do something about it.”

“You want- _us_ to send him an android?” Fowler tilted his head, not so much in thought as he was in surprise. “Why didn’t you go to the actual CyberLife instead of the… police?”

Jones scoffed.

“CyberLife promised their androids wouldn’t develop a personality or sentience or go and start a revolution, so excuse me for not exactly trusting them with a scientific breakthrough.” She glanced at Connor. “No offense.”

“None taken.” He grinned, still trying to make sense of this entire situation. “Starting revolutions is, in fact, one of our most universally shared hobbies.”

His mind, however, was in a much different state from cracking jokes. Kamski didn’t seem like somebody that’d ask for help in his own work. Hell, he didn’t seem like somebody to ask for help, period. But then again, it was 2018. He was a kid. A prodigy, for sure, but a kid nonetheless.

“I’m still not sure how this would work.” Fowler crossed his arms. “We don’t have androids working that are programmed to do this type of… modeling, or whatever. Asking CyberLife for one would be a bit suspicious, don’t you think?”

Jones dismissed his concerns with ease: “He informed me it wouldn’t be anything serious. He just wants to see how androids react in human environments. I understood that he’s just gonna let it loose in the city or something.”

‘Let it loose’ didn’t sit right with Connor, but he bit his tongue instead of offering a snarky remark. The official rights were still being issued to them. None of the deviants expected humans’ views of them to change overnight. It wouldn’t only have been naive, but also shown a poor understanding of how history tends to repeat itself.

“Well, we don’t have androids to spare, to tell you the truth. Only assistants, and we don’t even have that many of them, either. Believe it or not,” Fowler sighed, hesitant. “The uprising had an effect on the police force too. Very few androids wanted to stay – not that I blame them.” He glanced outside the glass wall. Connor didn’t have eyes on the back of his head, but he could take a good guess that the captain at least briefly glanced in the general direction of Reed’s desk.

“I see.” Jones didn’t waste any time in nodding her head toward Connor. “What about him? He doesn’t look like an assistant.”

Connor tried to say something, he didn’t even know if he was going to try and get himself out of the corner or just flat-out agree with her, but Hank beat him to it.

“Settle down, Miss, he’s a detective.” He sounded firm. Connor could see him lean in a little, shoulders tensing up. “Besides, there’s been an increase in cases last week. I’m not diving into those without my partner holding me by the collar.”

“Don’t you always go on and on about how you can handle your job by yourself?” Fowler asked, and immediately received a look of somebody that was willing to skin a man right then and there sent his way. Hank made a face that screamed _Shit, I did say that_ for a second before realizing fast enough that he’d put himself in a noose and went for a different approach.

“You could barely decipher his voice, we can’t send over an entire android,” he sounded like he wanted with every fiber of his being to convince them that this was not going to work out and they should absolutely not attempt it. If anything, Connor felt grateful, even if he understood this discussion wasn’t going anywhere.

“In fact! You can,” Jones interrupted immediately, beaming from ear to ear. Connor was seriously beginning to dislike the kind of enthusiasm she had over this. “Since you can send over files, the only guess I can make is that if we told Kamski to build an identical model to- _him_ , we could send over his… brain. In a way. Piece of cake.”

“Lady, that does not sound like a piece of cake at _all_ -“ Hank’s last protests were cut off by Fowler, who was probably more or less intrigued by the idea.

“Hank, you’re not the one being sent through time, calm down.”

“Fuckin’ hell, I’m not, but you wanna dissect the brain of my friend, if you think I’m just gonna sit here while you’re planning it-“

“Don’t cause any more disturbance than you already have, for your own sake,” he warned. “It took a lot of effort to talk Perkins out of taking you to court after you roughed him up like that. I won’t even start about how I managed to convince him to let you keep your job, but let me tell you, it was difficult.”

Now that was a blow below the belt, Connor could sense it. It was easy to tell that Hank would’ve taken great pleasure in slamming his hands on the table had the conversation not been watched by the others. Instead, all he did was glare with raised eyebrows, probably trying, just like Connor before, not to say anything exceedingly rude.

“What does this have to do with Connor?” He demanded. “I appreciate the effort you made for me, Jeffrey, I really do, but you aren’t gonna guilt-trip me into-“

Connor coughed into his fist, the most polite way he could to be heard. And he was. The room went quiet in an instant.

“Do I get any say in this?” He questioned calmly.

Fowler and Jones shared a look. It was the kind of wordless exchange he and Hank would have when a suspect was making their lives more difficult than they had to be. _Like heart, like soul_ , Connor thought, a little bitter.

“Of course,” Fowler finally admitted, either taken aback or just settling down, Connor didn’t pay much attention.

He gave himself some precious time to think. Having his mind purposefully go into pieces to get sent to a time before androids even existed sounded not only unbelievable, but also a bit… well, it was scary. Connor had gotten murdered before. Connor wasn’t the first… ‘him’ that existed. But, well, he didn’t want to think that something would go wrong, and he wouldn’t be the last him, either. A few weeks ago he would’ve dismissed those thoughts as some error in his programming, and he’d go to CyberLife to have himself reset, clear and simple. It wasn’t that easy now.

But at least he could be replaced. Not every model had that luxury. Not every android could get their brains backed up in case of an emergency. Connor was… advanced. Not that it made him any better, not that it calmed his desire of self-preservation, but it shamed him into the ordeal quite easily. If not him, then some other android was going to have to do it. Jones – like Kamski, in a way – was a rather determined person, and her curiosity was so extensive Connor found it morbid, to a degree.

“I’ll do it,” he said. It was rather simple in the end. It’s either him, or somebody else. He was created, to some extent, to protect others, after all. He rejected his core purpose every now and again, but it wasn’t a bad feeling embracing it, either.

“Oh, for f-“ Hank squinted at Jones, rising from his seat. “Connor, can we talk?”

Fowler sighed as Jones was evidently winning a staring contest with Hank. Connor stood up without muttering another word and headed for the door, hearing footsteps following him shortly after.

After the door clicked and they went down the short stairway to the desks, Hank grabbed Connor by the elbow, forcing him to a halt.

“The fuck are you thinking?”

Connor didn’t search for words for long. “Think about it rationally, Lieutenant. I can get my mind into a computer – or, if it’s 2018-themed, a flash drive.” His little joke had no effect, so he went on: “If I refuse, she’s just going to take another android. And she’ll find it. You probably won’t even get to observe her experiments in that case.”

“See, Connor, that’s the problem.” Hank stared at him, unblinking. “You’re making yourself a damn lab rat.”

“Better me than somebody else.” He felt unnaturally hollow saying that, but at least he could force himself to believe it. At least temporarily. He swallowed and added, “Besides, I’m pretty sure I’m a bit better with making reports to the police than a random android Miss Jones would grab just from the street. We could get more insight into Kamski.” He admitted to himself that he was just trying to convince not only Hank but himself into thinking this was good idea by now. “We could get more accurate comparisons of technology in that time and of the way people would react to a machine that passes for a human, we could-“

“You’re putting yourself in danger on purpose and you’re making up stupid excuses to help yourself feel better,” Hank stated dryly and took a deep breath. “Where have I heard that before?”

Connor looked down, finally allowing himself to smile.

“I have no idea why Jeffrey decided to pair us, knowing me full and well,” Hank added.

“Well, maybe he just wanted you to see how ridiculous you sound from the side.” Connor winked at him playfully, getting a well-deserved hit on his arm.

“Fuck, you’re an asshole,” Hank snorted, watching as the android climbed the stairs back to Fowler’s office before sort of coming to a realization that he’s supposed to follow as well.

Connor took a breath before confirming to the room again, “As said. I’ll do it.”

“Great!” Jones clasped her hands together in cheer and jumped from her chair like a happy kid that’s been given candy. In the corner of his eye, Connor noticed Hank closing the door behind him and leaning closer to Fowler to explain something, quiet and rushed, into his ear. He seemed to think for a while, mouthed _Fine_ at Hank and averted his eyes back to Jones. “I can get the process started right away, I’ll just need to get you to my lab and-“

“If you’re taking our man, at least do your work in our quarters,” Fowler stopped her. “We have space to spare.”

The spirit in her eyes dimmed a little, but she just shrugged dismissively. “Sure. Deal. I’ll only have to take a little more time to bring the equipment I need from the lab and then I can get everything hooked up.”

“When do you think you’ll be ready?” Fowler asked.

“Depends on a few things, but tomorrow we can get the ball rolling.” She picked up her coat from the chair she was sitting on and threw it over her shoulders. “Pleasure working with you, Captain.”

Before opening the door, she glanced at Hank and Connor over her shoulder. “Good day, Lieutenant- Hank?”

“Anderson,” he corrected, not even looking at her, instead eyeing the wall.

“Lieutenant Anderson it is.” Jones offered Connor a pleased smile. “Detective.”

“Miss Jones,” he nodded without even realizing it, like it was a part of his programming. Too many thoughts in his head. He wished he could wipe them all out just to have a clear mind for a minute. To think this through.

“Well.” Fowler didn’t give him that chance. “I suppose we’re done here, then. Hank, now would be a perfect time to complain again.”

Hank, needless to say, didn’t have anything to voice. The way he almost peeled Connor off his seat and out of the room said everything for him. Connor was glad he was forced to move, though. He probably would’ve silently sat there for hours, if else.

 

* * *

 

 

It felt strange, but now Connor couldn’t work by his table at all, and he was sure he knew the exact reason – now this definitely came from deviancy, no questions asked. It could’ve been funny if it wouldn’t have been sad. Here he was, realizing he _really_ did not want to go back to being taken apart, tested and interrogated by the people that claimed to have made him into everything good he was. It was something you’d get used to, but Connor didn’t want to get used to it, and that was the deviant part.

He was free, in every aspect of the word, free to refuse, free to stay, but he instead agreed to something he might as well call a suicide mission. He still chose to obey, and that screwed up his thought process. He felt pushed. He didn’t regret agreeing to it, there were more reasons for than against, but those reasons crowded him. He couldn’t breathe.

 _If it’s not me, it’s somebody else_ , he reminded himself. That was enough to convince him that he was inclined to take the part. His mind had been probed by CyberLife before, and he had seen them separating parts from parts, too. Not every other android had that experience. He could handle it again if it meant nobody else would have to.

If they don’t send anyone, Kamski might never break through, too. That was his main concern and that was why he didn’t say a word against the mission in general. Never being created was not a very pleasant thought, not only to him but to most androids, too. Maybe some people contemplated whether life would’ve been better had Kamski just become an AI mechanic or something, but it was more or less clear to Connor – if he wants all of them to live, he’s going.

He – just like the others - had no other choice, and that was irritating, but nothing new.

God, things really weren’t changing as fast as they would’ve liked.

Hank snapped his fingers in front of his face, and Connor only now realized he’d been motionless for a while.

“Hey! Is your battery down or something? Do I gotta plug you in somewhere?”

Connor blinked a few times and it felt like what he imagined was like waking up from deep sleep.

“You’ve been staring at that wall for half an hour now,” Hank commented, his hand mindlessly filling in documents inbetween words. Connor sat up straight (he hadn’t even noticed that he was slouching) and cleared his throat, reaching for his own pen and giving one look at the stack of papers he’d organized so neatly before for complete hopelessness to flood him again.

“I got carried away,” he murmured, pulling one sheet closer. “Sorry.”

“The hell are you apologizing for, I’m not Jeffrey.” He scoffed in Fowler’s general direction. “Though, at this point, I’m damn sure I’d rather be.”

“Who wouldn’t,” Connor agreed whole-heartedly, staring as a puddle of ink started to spread where he’d put down his pen. Hank watched him poking the paper instead of actually writing for a little while.

“Are you scared?”

Connor stopped toying with the ink.

“No,” he replied softly and resumed.

“Okay…” He couldn’t hear Hank writing again, so he must’ve still been watching. Surely enough, he spoke again soon, voice giving out just a little bit of frustration that wasn’t even aimed at Connor: “See, it’s pretty damn easy to tell when people are lying. And all the androids I’ve ever questioned didn’t even try to lie. It was- easy.” He paused, clicking his pen a few times. “And then you come along, and you can lie to everything that moves and have ‘em believe you. Not even that thing gives you away-” He tapped his temple. “It’s bullshit. Nobody should be able to lie that well, because now I can’t fucking tell whether you need a slap in the face or a hug.”

 _A hug would actually be pretty nice_ , Connor thought, but the words coming out of his mouth were a bit different.

“I don’t usually exhibit signs of stress because I was designed to negotiate with unstable people that were most likely dangerous. If they knew when I’d be lying, the situation wouldn’t improve,” he spilled it like a prayer. That was engraved in his brain since the very start.

 _Let her go and nothing will happen to you. You have my word_.

And then _You lied to me. You lied to me, Connor,_ over and over again.

He looked away from the table. It was a blurry memory, clouded by not only the period of time, but by the fact that, well, _that_ Connor was probably rotting away in a dumpster somewhere and he was a replacement with the same memories.

“Yeah, well, I’m not an unstable person that’s most likely dangerous, so you don’t have to lie to me,” Hank noted. He looked at Connor’s raised eyebrow and sighed. “Fine, scratch the first part, but you _really_ don’t have to lie.”

Connor swayed his head in thought, not really admitting to anything.

“Alright.” Hank leaned back. “Let me guess: you would find it, how did you say it, regrettable to be interrupted… or something.”

“I _was_ scared,” Connor whispered it like it was a secret. He didn’t like to think about having a gun in his face, especially being held by his partner, but he had to. He felt like he owned Hank an explanation for his cold nature. “Back then, I didn’t know what it felt like to be scared. But I was. And I mistook it for a desire not to fail, because being destroyed would be a setback. In truth, though, I didn’t want to be destroyed because I was- scared.”

Hank was looking straight at him, but it seemed more like he was trying to see _through_ him. Connor glanced away. He knew he’d have to confess to having permanent feelings at all times himself at some point, but actually doing it felt off. Maybe it was because CyberLife had engraved in his brain the instinctive thought that emotions were dangerous, and it’d make him feel like a threat to himself or to others, even. He’d fight against that instinct with all he had, because, clearly, it wasn’t true. It wasn’t true, but being told for all his short life that it was did not help his case. He wasn’t even aware if he felt ashamed of his thoughts or just unwilling to see the obvious.

“It’d be pretty stupid to not be scared when there’s a barrel between your eyes.” It sounded like Hank was trying to reassure him, and, honestly, he was doing a much better job than Connor himself. “And, you know, I’m, uh, glad I didn’t shoot you.”

Connor couldn’t help but chuckle. “Yes, me too.”

“So, you still haven’t really answered.”

He breathed in and out, trying to gather thoughts on what exactly this entire situation was to him. He wasn’t very good with descriptions of feelings yet. Something he hoped he’d never have to be, but the bigger part of him disagreed with that fiercely. He _wanted_ to feel. It just didn’t sit with him right.

Or maybe it wasn’t supposed to.

“No, I’m not as scared as I’m…” He gave it some thought before quieting down: “…unwilling, in a way.” Hank waited for him to continue, but he didn’t know how. “It’s just that, that I, I… I don’t know. Time travel in itself is difficult to make sense of.”

“So,” Hank tried to help him a little. “Are you nervous that Jones’ machines or whatever will fail?”

“Now that you suggested it…” Connor shrugged. “Maybe, but that’s not it. It’s- I’m going to a time not only before androids were considered a normal part of society, not to mention their rights that, well, they’re not quite in place yet, are they?” Hank sensed the edge in his voice and lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I know how to behave without any rights to my name.” He wished he didn’t. “But I don’t know how to behave before I was even supposed to exist. I don’t even know how much Kamski knew about his own creations back then, I don’t have a clue. And I think that’s what makes me unwilling. He could want to take me apart, and he could want to destroy me, and I won’t be able to do anything, because at that point in history, I’m not even supposed to be alive.”

“He’s not gonna destroy you,” Hank said sharply. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t touch one hair on your head. We- We will.”

Connor looked up. A trace of a smile appeared over his face and went away just as fast.

“You can never be sure.”

“Damn right we can. Kamski isn’t stupid. He harms one android, he won’t get another.”

“If by harming one he figures it out, he technically won’t need another.”

Hank didn’t have anything to say to that, but Connor could see that he wanted to argue. The android sighed and stood up, deciding against filling out papers with so many distractions in his head.

“I’ll go buy coffee, maybe it’ll help,” he decided vaguely. Hank squinted at him.

“You drink coffee?”

“I do sometimes, yes. I don’t need caffeine to function better, but I just- I like the taste.”

“You like the taste,” he scoffed. “Please at least tell me you put sugar in.”

“That’d make it harder for me to taste it,” Connor shook his head. It was a rather nice change to talk about something else than the threat of being enthusiastically dismembered that would be looming over him in the near future. “My sense of taste is deliberately not highly developed, since-“

“You lick evidence,” Hank finished in a monotonous tone. Connor allowed himself to glare.

“I don’t do it just because I like to lick things or to unnerve you. There’s an entire forensics lab on my tongue.” Hank raised an eyebrow, but Connor just crossed his arms defensively. “I swear _, I don’t do it because I like to lick things_ , Lieutenant. Please try and process that.”

“Yeah, okay, why don’t you go and get yourself some of that sugarless coffee.” Hank turned back to his papers, either unconvinced or just dreading Connor’s choice of the drink. As Connor headed for the coffee machine, his ears picked up on Hank’s murmurs under his breath: “I hope it tastes as sad and bitter as your dark, sinful soul, you fuckin’ masochist.”

Connor, who was just about to walk off, spun on his heel, “I heard that.”

“Yeah, I hope you did!” Hank answered from his table, eyes firmly planted on the monitor of his computer. “And I hope it helps you re-think all of your life choices too!”

Connor clicked his tongue, amused, and turned around again. One of the things he liked the most about people in general was that being rude was mostly considered a bad thing, but then being rude in some specific situations was just okay. It was wonderful, how you could bash somebody’s taste in food or movies or just interests and simply come off as if you were playing around or, in the worst case, mildly obnoxious.

He stopped by the machine and, pressing buttons, noticed Tina resting behind the table in the corner of the room. Tina, Tina Chen, the only sort-of friend Gavin had. To Connor, she seemed… difficult. She frequently talked to Gavin, she snickered with him when she thought nobody was watching. From her behavior, it could be deduced that she genuinely enjoyed his company. And, honestly, that didn’t make her very socially attractive, but that’s where the catch was: without Gavin around, she was rather nice. Never uttered a word against her co-workers (Connor included; though maybe she could’ve said something while he wasn’t there), never insulted anyone, she was always up to help with anything. In short, she wasn’t something you could expect from a person that spends time with Gavin Reed.

It’s as if she was masked. Not faking a personality, just adapting to others. It was a good trait to have, Connor had to admit it; but it also made him very curious to understand more about Tina, to learn about what kind of person she really was when she wasn’t hiding.

Or maybe he just didn’t know why she hung out with Gavin. That was also possible.

God, Connor was turning into a petty piece of shit.

Deviancy was, in all senses of the word, absolutely wonderful.

“Good morning,” he greeted, taking his coffee out of the holder and stopping by her table as if he was just about to leave.

“Just morning. It’s definitely not a good one, pal.” She looked up and Connor saw that she was writing some kind of email on her phone. He also noticed her eyeing his cup. “You can drink?”

 _Here we go again_ , Connor thought, but he couldn’t really blame her. Few people actually bothered to learn about how androids worked.

“Yes.” He graced her with a half-smile. “Coffee is nice.”

“What kind of co-“ Tina stood up briefly to peek over the corner of his cup before collapsing onto the chair again. “-Oh, black.” She snorted. “And Hank didn’t give you shit for that?”

Connor shrugged. “It wasn’t too bad.”

“Oh, come to me anytime, I’ll make it worse. I hate coffee with no sugar or milk. I’m not very fond of coffee in general, you know. Too bitter, no matter what you put in it. I’d probably straight-up kill myself with sugar if I drank coffee that was acceptably sweet.” She turned at her phone again and continued typing. “I really gotta work now. Have a good one.”

Connor got the hint and nodded politely. “You too, Officer.”’

She really was a mystery. Never kept a conversation for longer than a few minutes. You could get the idea that she just didn’t like talking at all.

“Well, you look like you saw Perkins sucking someone off,” Hank commented when Connor got back to his table with not a single one of his thoughts ridden of and his fingertips nearly melting from the carton.

It was good that he hadn’t started drinking it yet, because after hearing Hank’s less-than-pleasant observation he probably would’ve spit out everything he had in his mouth.

“How is- Excuse me, but how is that supposed to make me look?”

“Troubled.”

“Lieutenant, if I saw,” he paused. “If I saw _that_ , I would definitely be much more than troubled.”

“Like?”

“Probably very disturbed and possibly scarred for a long time.” He shook his head fiercely. “I understand that you’re making an attempt to take my mind off stressful thoughts, but those images  are even more stressful than the idea of going back in time.”

“Great, you won’t think about that other thing anymore.” Hank smiled. It’d been a while Connor had seen him smile genuinely. Sad smiles didn’t have the same meaning.

“Lieutenant?” He began, but didn’t find it in himself continue right off the bat. He didn’t exactly know what and how to say.

In the end, he simply felt grateful. Hank had noticed his desire to stay, to not get involved in any more special situations, his simple human wish to just maybe build some sort of life he’d never had for himself and live it. And Hank tried to help him fight for it, and he argued with Jones and with Fowler while being himself on thin ice, and he did it for Connor, even if it didn’t work out.

Connor finally gathered his thoughts to blurt out a short and definitely under-qualified “Thank you.”

He could see Hank furrow his brows in confusion. Of course he wouldn’t catch on about what he’s being thanked for. But it didn’t seem like he wanted to ask. After all, he, too, probably has had times where he only wanted somebody else to be there, even if in vain.

When another person is there, things usually look better.

Maybe everything wasn’t going to be as bad as they expected.

 

* * *

 

 

“Normally, I’d ask if you’d eaten anything,” Hank said, watching Connor finishing up his work. Jones had called the station in the middle of the night and cheerfully explained that everything was ready. Connor, however, after taking the phone from a rather sleepy officer on a night shift, told her in a not-that-cheerful manner that most people slept during the dark hours. She then agreed (reluctantly) to wait until the morning.

Connor had begun to seriously doubt his choice the second he put the phone down. The time that he had to spare until everyone would wake up and get into the station was enough to form an unpleasant ball of... _something_ inside him. Maybe it was anxiety. It was probably anxiety.

“But I’m assuming that’s a stupid question to ask an android,” Hank ended. Connor looked up at him, fully awake and pleasantly surprised by the fact that his partner was on time for the second day in a row.

“Food doesn’t give me any advantages,” Connor explained in usual monotony. “It doesn’t get digested, either. It just piles up in my stomach, and if I ate regularly, I’d also need to empty it manually after each meal. It’d just be a waste of food.”

Hank clearly wasn’t very amused by the explanation. “Jesus. Wish I hadn’t asked.”

A sense of disgust was one of the many things Connor couldn’t yet grasp. He understood why it was there, to prevent humans from spreading disease or just to keep them safe in other ways, but he just couldn’t imagine being disgusted by something himself.

After all, his chemical sensors were in his mouth.

“Your questionable anatomy aside…” Hank leaned on the table, looking straight at him with what Connor guessed was concern. “You think you’re gonna be okay?”

“Yes,” he answered. Connor had thought about it, in fact, he had the entire night (again – Jones seemed to understand others’ basic human needs, and for that, Connor was grateful) to do nothing but think.

In the end, what was going to change if he spent his time dreading failure? Back when he still catered to CyberLife’s every need, even then he didn’t find fear the driving force of his work. It was just a sort of ‘I’m used to it, I’m just doing my job’ thing. And even though now he was his own person, or at least was trying to be, he still found himself within the ‘I’m doing what I’m supposed to do and, despite my discomfort, this is the way things should be’. It must’ve been a harmful mindset, but it was better than being scared.

“I’ll be fine,” Connor repeated. Hank must’ve found his calm unusual and nodded in thought, squinting slightly.

“Okay.” He used the last few moments they had to rest his hand on Connor’s shoulder. It was warm, a nice feeling to his skin that, despite not being cold, exactly, just didn’t have a sense of temperature at all, it wasn’t any different than the air in the room. “We gotta go.”

Connor lingered for a second. Then, deciding that skulking about wasn’t going to change anything, he shut off the computer, glanced across his table and, after standing up, pushed his chair forth neatly without rush. _This is it, I suppose_ , he thought, following Hank, who was slouching and seemed no less upset than Connor.

Jones, for all they knew, seemed completely unbothered by the fact that Fowler’s idea of ‘spare headquarters’ was an unoccupied holding cell. When they walked in, she was whistling some happy melody, plugging multi-coloured wires into a large machine that she’d apparently squeezed into the corner for maximum free space. In the center of the room was a rather uncomfortable-looking chair - not that Connor cared all that much – that he was most likely going to be put in, considering most ends of the wires he recognized as compatible with the ports in the back of his head and neck.

“Good morning!” Jones cheered. Her painfully tight bun seemed to stay in the same place. Connor wondered if she just put it up in the same manner every day or if it was so solid it just remained like that all the time. He opened his mouth for a greeting, but Hank was faster.

“Jesus, do you sleep?” His eyes searched around the cell in obvious surprise. “That must’ve taken forever.”

“It would have,” she agreed. “I got some help, though. My son’s pretty approachable when he’s not in his room for the entire day. I don’t know what he’s doing in there, even. Not that I particularly want to.”

She must’ve found her family situation a harmless conversation starter, and, if Hank was a parent, nostalgic or relatable. Connor watched him for any signs of distress, though. Hank, however, seemed to either be unfazed or just hid it very well. The most response Connor could see was the man’s lip twitching up.

“Alright, when’s Jeffrey gonna show up?” He turned to Connor, who was more or less happy with the change of topic.

And, soon enough, as if summoned, Fowler emerged through the door, looking not any less professional than he always did. He exchanged a few words with Jones and allowed her to do her thing.

Her said ‘thing’ was sitting Connor down in that weird wired chair and running a few diagnostics first, before asking if he was ready (he didn’t know, but confirmed for the sake of it).

“So, we’re going to back you up first. I’m sure you know how this works.” She twirled a wire around her index finger expectantly.

“I do.”

“Okay, so- we’re allowing connections to be made to a drive in this device I’m gonna plug you into, let me know when.”

Connor closed his eyes briefly, his LED flashed bright yellow for a few moments, and it was done. A new version of him now lived in this strange cube-resembling machine Jones had probably created herself, existing separately from him. He looked at Jones, blank-eyed, waiting for further instructions.

“Great. Now you’re going to have to remove the skin on your nape, where the outlets are.” She winked at him. “I’ve done my fair share of reading, you know.”

Well, at least she tried.

He bowed his head forward as much as he could and the skin on his neck pulled itself back, leaving a sense of tickling as electric sparkles crackled from the spot. The feeling didn’t last for long, though, because Jones put her hand on the back of his head and held him down softly as she focused on manually opening one of the panels where his neck was attached to his shoulders. Connor soon felt a current spreading from the wire that she connected to him. It wasn’t very pleasant, but it wasn’t stress-inducing either, considering he’d been wired to a lot of other devices, mainly in CyberLife, and the holders there were definitely less gentle with him than Jones was – her palm barely hovered over his head since he’d bowed as much as she needed.

“Alright, that’s it,” she announced, taking a step back. Connor straightened up and counted the wires that were in. _Eight_. “We should be good to go.”

“Okay,” Fowler said, an expression of distant worry on his face. “You’ve exchanged messages, but I’m sure sending over a program as complicated as Connor’s mind is gonna be a bit different. Is it?”

“Maybe you should’ve talked about this before you strapped me into a chair,” Connor advised in an even voice.

Jones shrugged. “Point is,” she scratched her forehead, undoubtedly exploring all the possibilities in her head. “We have everything backed up, but there’s still room for trial and error. If he gets fried or something, it’s gonna take a little while until you guys can convince CyberLife to send us another android, since you didn’t wanna use other ones you have.”

“If he _gets fried_ ,” Hank muttered under his breath. “I’m frying every single one of you as well. In alphabetical fuckin’ order.”

“There’s really no need to get emotional over this, Lieutenant,” Connor said as sincerely as he could while he could still feel the sparkles going off on his skin. “However, I really would have preferred having heard about my death warrant before I was in the execution room.”

Fowler stared at him, studying his face for a bit before accusing, “You’re having fun!”

“More or less, I am,” Connor agreed, or, well, more like ‘lied smoothly’. It was a strange feeling. He knew everything would turn out okay whether he got through or not, but something felt awfully alien in that thought. After all, even if he was backed up in a drive or whatever, would it turn out to be him, really? It wouldn’t be the same him. If he dies here, he dies, but not really. An equally peculiar mindset.

Why he’d respond to that feeling with humour was a mystery to him as much as it was to Fowler.

But he was sure he’d worried enough yesterday. Being worried again wouldn’t be any good. And who knows, if he gets too worked up, Hank might, too.

 _He’s had enough stress as it is_ , Connor thought and put on something that resembled a smile.

“So,” he started. “Are you going to launch me up into the atmosphere or...?”

“No, it’s a bit more elaborate than that.” Fowler pinched the bridge of his nose.

“He means that he has no goddamn idea,” Hank corrected.

“’Course I don’t, bloody hell.” The captain glared, first at Hank, then at Connor. “That Jones over there does, though, go bother her, why don’t you.”

“You boys finished? Both pretty, if I might add.” Jones was clicking buttons on the sides of the machine, completely involved in her work. Finishing up, she held her finger over the last one and glanced at them for confirmation.

“Go ahead,” Connor murmured, closing his eyes. It was easier to make sense of  himself when vision wasn’t disrupting thoughts.

“Connor?” Hank’s voice.

“Yes?”

“If you don’t get yourself killed, I’ll _maybe_ give your coin back to you.”

He smiled.

Then, he could hear the button click and something flooded in through the wires immediately- or maybe it was _him_ flooding out. Whatever it was, the sensation came so fast he jerked forward, but the wires didn’t let him get far. While it was just tingling before, now the current dawned on him so hard he didn’t know that much pressure was possible. It felt like his limbs were going to get crushed together and his chest was going to explode.

 _It’s from the brain_ , Connor clung to the thought desperately. _Whatever it is, it’s caused by the brain signals, it’s not happening in reality_ -

Rational thinking was getting him nowhere, because he could feel it. He could feel more and more with each passing moment, but his entire body was becoming numb. Like the last moments before the bullet ended him back during the Carlos Ortiz murder case. It felt similar, but it was stretched out – it was his memories and his mind being violently pulled out, making him shake in place, but he was so empty he could barely think. He couldn’t. Not really. It was bad. It was _bad_.

He didn’t know what was happening, but he was sure as hell this was what pain felt like.

He opened his eyes, but, only for a moment, he saw the room, somebody trying to touch him (to comfort or hurt him? He didn’t recognize who it was in his blind panic) – and then he saw nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> then he experienced a short circuit and died. the end. tune in next week for depressing android funeral jazz tunes and hank screaming into the void


	2. Connor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am absolutely baffled by the response of the first chapter, and i mean it when i say it! i've never received that many comments and that much encouragement, and i can only sincerely hope the continuation of my work pleases you guys.  
> this chapter isn't as fast-paced as the first, it's more of an environment setting, and trust me when i tell you that kamski, especially a teenage version, is an unsolved mystery to me. but i don't think it was too bad, and i'm excited to see what you think!

He was alive, he was alive.

He was _alive_.

Stimuli crushed him from all sides at once, bright light, sharp whirring sound in his ears and proprioception not so much as surprised him, but rather came back a bit too fast, and he couldn’t manage to pull himself together fast enough before he regained the ability to move. He stumbled forward – or, more accurately, manage to take a step before his legs failed and he felt the cold floor under his knees.

It was like being born, but with less blissful unawareness.

Connor blinked, coming to a realization that not only had he fallen to his knees, he also must’ve leaned on his arms for support while being shaken by electricity. The current was gone, thankfully, only a strange tingling sense remained and continued to prick at his fingers.

It took him very little time to adjust once he’d come back to his senses. He mentally ticked off any stimuli he could recognize, to settle his train of thought and compose himself, and then eventually get off the ground.

First, he was dressed – he could feel the cloth dragging on him softly. It was maybe a tennis tee and some sort of loose sweatpants, but he couldn’t tell much more.

Secondly, his skin wasn’t there. Only the smooth gleam of silver reflected where it was supposed to be. He worked on slowly getting the synthetic to spread across his body, concealing the plates beneath it. Being bare like that made him very aware of his vulnerability, and he knew that, for one thing, he didn’t like being vulnerable.

Thirdly, even if he could still feel lingering aftermath of the current, he could move just fine.

Connor slowly leaned back to see a figure – a boy - crouching next to him. The boy – the man would perhaps suit him better - had raised his hand like one would to calm a scared animal, staring at him with glimmering eyes.

Connor felt like he was being hit by another wave of electricity. He knew who was waiting for him in the past. But he hadn’t really thought about the fact that people grow and change. While his common sense sung ‘ _Kamski!’_ at a messy bun and a prying look, it was hard to convince himself that Kamski wasn’t always a grown man with a mockingly crooked eyebrow.

This Kamski was far from the one Connor remembered, but there were just enough features to match them into the same person, just with different experiences reflected – and that was even before he’d said a single word.

“Easy,” Kamski lulled, still at a raised arm’s distance from him. “Hey. Hey.”

He should stand up, Connor thought, and his body automatically followed. Kamski rose with him, not taking a single step closer. Connor couldn’t blame him – technically all he saw was an android collapsing immediately after being  activated.

But Kamski didn’t seem all that wary. Instead, he looked astounded, eyes wide and lips parted just a little, saying so much just with an expression and still leaving Connor in the dark – he couldn’t tell whether this was a positive or a negative reaction. Probably because when he’d last seen him, Kamski didn’t really… _react_. At all.

_Say something._

“Excuse my- mishap there, Mr Kamski.” Oh, that’s a something, alright.

Kamski tilted his head, squinting at Connor, who suddenly saw himself trying to analyze a suspect in the very same manner.

“It’s alright.” The reassurance was barely audible. The corners of his lips twitched up as he stated, “You know who I am.”

“It’d be hard not to,” Connor nodded. Kamski’s smile slowly spread across his face, a bit more daring with every passing moment.

“You’re it,” he said simply.

Connor raised an eyebrow. “Sorry?”

“You’re _it_ ,” he repeated with even more confidence, then spun around and beckoned Connor to go with him. “Come on.”

Connor didn’t follow immediately, he was- puzzled, more or less. Kamski wasn’t at all what he had expected. Well, he probably shouldn’t have had expected anything in the first place, really, Kamski wasn’t the type of person he could put in a single frame, even if he seemed just as damn ominous as he was in the- present? Future?

Two minutes in 2018 and Connor was already thrown off. _Alright then_.

“Come _on_ ,” Kamski repeated, a few steps away from him, looking over his shoulder.

Connor didn’t respond, but went along, scanning the room as he did. He was initially sent to an area with lights dimmed significantly. It was a rather small space, but there wasn’t much to house in it – Kamski had placed a working desk in the corner, a few tanks of Thirium in another, piles of scraps of metal here and there, but nothing excessive, apart from a machine identical to the one Jones had brought into the station. The only difference was that Jones also brought a chair. It was a more or less humble studio, despite the kind of science that was taking place in it.

The room Kamski led him to, however, was much broader, sunlight seeping through a single but fairly sized window. By the window stood a table and two chairs, and that’s where they stopped. Connor’s eyes drifted away from the brightness and stopped on the farthest wall – three androids were confined to it.

Of course Kamski had them designed already. Connor was but an example.

He swallowed, uneasiness making his chest seem hollow.

Kamski cleared his throat. “Sit down.” It didn’t feel like a demand, but, when he thought about it, _nothing_ Kamski had ever said felt like a demand. He’d make sure you had no other choice, of course, but he’d be awfully polite doing it.

“I assumed you’d run tests on me right away,” Connor admitted, tapping his finger on the surface of the table without making a sound. He hadn’t noticed it before, but the model that he was in was a bit paler in skin tone -  it wasn’t very noticeable to a human, but android eyes could pick up subtle changes in appearances pretty well. The skin wasn’t as lighter as it was desaturated. Almost gray.

Kamski was smirking at him.

“I am,” he shrugged as if it was that obvious. “Obviously, you know how to walk, but so do they-“ he gestured vaguely at the lifeless androids by the wall. Their eyes were still wide open, to the point where Connor wondered whether they even had eyelids. “You, though, you’re not like them at all, if you look at the bigger picture.”

Already running analysis – which one of them was the machine here?

“How am I different?”

“You think clearly,” he stated, glancing back toward the room they came from. “You fell, that’s understandable, but that’s where the test comes in - one of them would just get up, no problem, and just stand there. But you didn’t get up, and it may seem like nitpicking, but subtle differences make for big changes and you, you were surprised and you were _confused_ , and it was wonderful.”

He looked like a kid that was given candy. And here Connor was, thinking that the words ‘enthusiasm’ and ‘Kamski’ wouldn’t ever go together.

“Well,” he muttered, “Wonderful to watch, maybe. It wasn’t that nice from my perspective.”

Again, Kamski smiled at him.

“I haven’t even started asking questions and you already sound like a person.” He rested his chin on his hand in thought.

 _I_ am _a person_ , Connor thought, and a voice immediately shut him up – _oh, not in 2018, you’re not_.

“That is what you wanted, correct?” He was trying to break Kamski down, but to no avail. Even as a spindly teenager, he had a good brain, and a good brain’s intentions are hardly ever easy to see. “You want to make androids that are perfect copies of humans.”

Kamski shook his head. “I do want perfection, but I don’t think that it’s possible to make perfect humans out of metal. We aren’t flawless in the first place, so why choose the same approach and give androids the same functions?”

“You mean that you know that your final product will have weaknesses?”

“I wouldn’t call them weaknesses,” he shrugged. “They’re more of… deliberate imperfections, let’s say. Humans are emotional creatures. They work on instincts. Given that we’re very social as a species, it’s an advantage.”

He paused, as if waiting for the android to disagree. Connor wasn’t going to. Feelings were often a good thing, after all. It’s what made them realize they were alive.

“Why make androids emotional too, then?” Kamski continued, fidgeting with a single dark ring on his thumb. “I don’t want to create a branch-off from us. I’m building machines that are worse where humans are better, and better where humans are worse. It’s a balance, don’t you think?”

Connor opened his mouth and closed it again. _That’s where the test comes in_ , Kamski said. The question he had was whether he was supposed to pass it or not.

“I think that to balance something out,” he started slowly, reassuring himself that it was Kamski, not anyone else, who told him there was an escape from his own program. “You have to take into account the equal weight of both sides of the scale.”

If Kamski had an LED, it would’ve probably been shining like the sun outside. The answer didn’t seem to surprise him, but he looked like he was in thought. Connor silently hoped that that he hadn’t just signed a disassembling warrant.

A wave of something like relief washed over him when Kamski finally nodded, seemingly content.

“That’s why you’re here.” He leaned back on the chair with a half-smile. “I’m going to make androids as human as we can be robotic, and take from that what you want.”

After a beat of silence, Connor asked, “Was that the answer you were expecting?”

Kamski looked up from his ring.

“No,” he confessed. “But it might’ve just been the one I wanted.”

 

* * *

 

Kamski didn’t have much more to ask of him what consisted of his opinions. He walked back into the studio and sat Connor down again, but this time by his desk. He himself leaned back on top of it, posture suggesting that he felt quite relaxed, but a notebook and a pen that he’d fetched from one of the drawers gave something else away.

“I hope you don’t mind a bit of an interrogation.” He said in a honeyed voice. Connor shifted in the chair, sensing the tone. “That’s- why you’re here, after all, hm?”

“Of course.”

“Okay. First of all, it’s a bit unfair that you know a lot of things about me and I don’t even know who you are, so let’s fix that.” Kamski looked up, hurriedly marking something down. Would somebody like Kamski have a messy handwriting? Connor hadn’t ever seen it before. “Do you have a name?”

“Connor.”

“Connor, okay, nice to see you, Connor.” He didn’t write that down. Connor assumed Kamski didn’t feel like he’d forget something that simple. “I know at least three Connors without counting you now. They’ve all been assholes so far. Please refrain from being an asshole, Connor.”

Chatty, Kamski was being _chatty_. People really did change drastically as time went on.

“Should I tell you my serial number?” Connor asked, paying little attention to Kamski’s comment.

“Oh, now what would I do with that?” He snorted. “If I’m asking you something, I’m going to be using that in some way, Connor. I don’t really know where I could put your number. You know, you’re in a different body. It’s unusual - probably not even all that comfortable, is it?”

Comfortable wasn’t a way to put it, but he could walk and talk just fine, the voice he was hearing was… more or less recognizable as his own. He didn’t know what he looked like, aside from the slight difference in skin colour. Maybe he’d look into that, but features of his appearance didn’t have much impact when it came to functionality.

Now, if Kamski would’ve given him a coin, he could’ve told him with pretty good accuracy how in sync with himself he was.

But a coin was a source of his habit, and in 2018, a machine wasn’t supposed to have habits.

“It’s a good model,” he said without much of an expression. “I hope it serves you well.”

 _I hope it serves you well, because that’s the only thing it knows to do_.

“It will,” Kamski promised calmly and put the pen on the paper. “What kind of model were you? In 2038?”

“You built this body,” Connor reminded, furrowing his brows in mild confusion. “Didn’t Miss Jones send you the exact functions of each biocomponent?”

“She sent me the layout and anatomy. The functions were there, but they seemed very peculiar.“ Kamski shrugged. “I can only make guesses about your purpose and hope for accuracy. For example, I can’t for the life of me figure out why somebody would put an analysis sensor in an android’s mouth.”

Connor made a face. _Is that really the first thing people notice_ , he wondered, just a little bitter.

“So, a wider description of your model would be nice.”

 He nodded, skimming through all the information he had on his predecessors and the improvements CyberLife had made after his failures. “I’m an RK-800. That’s not saying much, though, is it?”

Kamski shook his head, focusing his full attention on him, and Connor recalled the ability sheet of an RK800 that had been nailed to his head immediately after first activation. It was a simple block of information, and it was all Connor had for a personality back then. A few lines of code that coordinated his behaviour. It would’ve been hilarious if it hadn’t been depressing.

“I feel like I have to explain my oral sensors now,” he said. Kamski stifled a chuckle. “They’re in place for analysis, like you said, they’re used to break down samples in real-time to check their components and age, and if they’re bodily fluids, when connected to a database, I can identify the specific human that left the sample behind.”

“So, you use your mouth as a means of DNA profiling, correct? Were you used in forensic science?” Kamski’s eyes widened. Well, he was making personal accountants at that time, it was pretty safe to say a robot scientist wasn’t in his urgent schedule – or maybe just not yet.

“I wasn’t limited to a lab,” Connor answered vaguely. “I had an ability to reconstruct events, which was very beneficial for detective work. However, to use that ability, I’d have to be in the crime scene and look through evidence. My deductions were based on likely changes in the scene that would leave an impact even after the culprit had fled, like broken objects, dents, changes of density in specific materials and so on.”

It was much easier to talk about something that he’d memorized so well he could spill out like a poem than his views on androids and humans coexisting, forming a balance or whatever other existential wonders Kamski had planned for his social testing.

Lost in thought, Connor was a little late to notice Kamski staring at him.

“You’re an android detective is what you’re saying.” There were stars painted in his eyes. “That’s- better than I thought.”

“What did you think?” Connor tilted his head.

“Well, since you do bloodstain pattern analysis, you might’ve also been a lawyer.”

He raised his eyebrows. _Oh. It’s a joke._ Took him a while. Maybe tension relief humour just wasn’t his thing.

Paying no attention to the lack of Connor’s reaction, Kamski furiously sketched something down in his notes. “Anything else?”

“I have a social module that helps me adapt to other people’s personalities and predict or manipulate human behaviour.”

He wasn’t fazed by any of that, either. “Did you have any specific physical abilities?”

“I’m... capable of combat, both armed and unarmed, even though I wasn’t mainly designed for it.”

Connor’s voice was oddly... cold. He should probably work on sounding less like a conversation bot when he was talking about his programming. Maybe it was habit. Or maybe being in any situation that required him to answer the questions from a person with a notebook and ‘CyberLife’ written all over their face wasn’t evoking very pleasant memories. No matter what, it seemed like there was always a silent threat hovering over his head. Even though he knew there wasn’t one.

Kamski snapped him out of it, “I’m sure your reconstruction ability got transferred along with your coding, but I’ll give you a fair warning. You might not recover your combat skill, at least right off the bat. Android brains don’t work the same way as humans’ do. Your movement is tied to your brain as well, but, in a new body, it’ll take some time to get used to new biocomponents.” He stared Connor down. “You didn’t fall back there just because of shock, you know, though it may have been a factor.”

“I could kind of tell,” Connor murmured, looking down at the table. “Is it possible that I’ll just lose balance at some point?”

“No, I don’t think so. You just might want to wait for a bit before throwing yourself into a wrestling match.”

“Will there be circumstances where I would be able to, theoretically?” He asked, offering a half-smile.

Kamski leaned forward slightly, looking at Connor like he was a little kid that needed things spelled out for him.

“If you fail to do your job, I’m assuming there will be plenty,” he snickered, dropping the notebook and the pen into the open drawer under him and slamming it shut with his leg. “Asking you questions about what you’re supposed to do won’t cut it. In order for me to see how a machine is supposed to act, you need to actually be in an environment where you can demonstrate the abilities  you’re talking about. In your case, I’ll- Wait. No. You told me you could predict human behaviour just now.” Kamski shifted on the table, crossing his legs, like he was about to watch a movie. “You have three guesses. Go.”

Well, he might’ve had a good fifteen years on Connor, but nobody would need a social module to predict what he was planning.

“You’re going to get me to work with the police to see how an android should act.”

Kamski nodded, his face sinking into a troubled expression.

“It won’t be easy.” He sighed. “Actually, ’not easy’ might be a severe understatement, given that nobody is supposed to know you exist just yet and I’m not an influential figure to the Department, but I’ll manage, somehow.”

 _Doesn’t he always_ , Connor thought. _Elijah Kamski, IQ of 171, how could he possibly ever fail?_

“I’ll worry about it when the time comes, there’s no point in whining right now.” Kamski reached into a pile of papers on his desk and pulled out a printed picture of something that looked like an x-ray of a human neck. “Your voice box is very well-developed.”

“I can replicate voices-“

“Yeah, I got that far myself, considering I built it.” He looked up, anticipation bright in his face. “Mimic my voice.”

Connor took a breath, then focused on the sentence echoing in his head over and over. _Mimic my voice. Mimic my voice_. He synced his lips with the words, sampled the tone and pitch. It was second nature. _Mimic my voice_. He’d done the same with the deviant from Stratford Tower. He regretted it afterwards. _Mimic my voice_. In the end, it only took a few moments. _Mimic_ -

“This is as accurate as it’s going to get,” he heard Kamski’s voice, and saw him light up at an android that spoke just like him.

“That’s not bad.” Kamski jumped down from the table, concealing the wonder in his tone. “It’s enough for now. I’ll get in touch with the police, see what I can do. You can walk around for a bit, exercise, just don’t punch anything, alright? You’ll have chances of restoring your combat abilities later. Hopefully, outside of the studio.”

Connor shrugged ambiguously, giving no promises. Kamski snorted, lightly brushing across his back as he made his way to the other room and promptly shut the door behind him.

First thing that came into Connor’s mind weren’t any insights into Kamski’s character driven from the conversation they had, but rather a very clear statement that Kamski didn’t yet trust him enough to leave him alone like that in his workplace, maybe he’ll never trust him enough, and it was understandable. That meant something was here that would keep an eye on him while Kamski was away – possibly a camera.

Connor searched around the walls and corners of the room, preferring to know if – and from where – he was being watched, but he found no security devices – instead, in the shadows, he found another android. It wasn’t clear whether it was a male or female. Perhaps Kamski didn’t build it with gender in mind – it was just there to look ominously around the studio, with eyes so deep in the sockets that only a narrow ray of crimson light, resembling a laser, could reach the outside.

An eerie realization dawned on him - the android couldn’t move, its legs and arms and possibly back were attached to the wall like figureheads to a prow of a ship, like it was a part of the structure. It could only stare, and in this case, it was staring at Connor, who, as if hypnotized, reached out and lightly brushed his finger on its jaw. It didn’t have skin, maybe Kamski decided it wasn’t necessary. The metal surface wasn’t heated at all, it felt cold and smooth to touch.

The android could probably feel pressure to some degree, or at least detect it. Its eyes drifted to Connor in a slow, fluid motion that no human eyes could achieve. It was a look that also didn’t convey any emotion whatsoever.

Through parted lips came a voice, if you could call it that, and Connor stepped back, dropping his hand. It was mechanical, and it was doubled, echoing unnaturally with no harmony to soften it.

“You’re allowed to be here.” It cut through his ears, but at least it was quiet, barely more than a whisper.

Connor nodded, speechless, deciding not to bother the android further. _This_ was Kamski’s security. And, frankly, it did its job. Connor didn’t even want to think about that voice screaming bloody murder the second something wrong happened in the studio.

If he’d missed the android before, maybe he’d also missed something else.

The studio wasn’t any less cramped than he remembered it from the few minutes that he was kneeling on the floor, and, other than the android, there wasn’t much to discover – the Thirium tanks were humming silently, and the machine that brought Connor here seemed to be inactive, shut off the moment it fulfilled its purpose. However, when he wandered too close to the door, he found another next to it, dark and blending into the wall seamlessly.

Maybe he shouldn’t go in, he thought, going in, obviously.

In a very anti-climactic turn of events, he found himself in a bathroom. Chuckling at his evaporating anticipation, he glanced across the room – and his eyes got caught on a wide mirror that stretched across the entire wall.

Out of sheer curiosity or just the desire to know how different Kamski’s models were from CyberLife’s in 2038, he stepped closer, examining his reflection. If he could consider it _his._

He definitely wasn’t wrong about his skin – the tone had absolutely been desaturated and smoothed out, no natural human factor to it at all. Kamski probably hadn’t yet gotten to the realization that perfection made people feel uneasy. His eyes were a different colour, also light gray – that’s fair, Jones probably didn’t bother with sending over trivial details, not that it made that big of a difference, but for one second, when looking at himself, he could swear he wasn’t seeing the same person.

That’s when he understood what exactly was unsettling people about the first renders of androids – they looked like walking corpses. He’d simply heard they didn’t seem human, but he didn’t know they looked... like that.

He couldn’t make any changes. Not to his hair, not to anything. He understood that because he made a subconscious attempt almost instinctively. No, he didn’t look like himself, but the similarities were there, in the shape of his face, in his general height, in his voice, even, and they _scared_ him.

It’s like somebody had put a death mask on him and told him to walk.

He rushed out, closing the door behind him with a bit more noise than he intended, almost slamming into Kamski.

“Whoa. Watch it.” Kamski looked him up and down leniently. “Did something happen?”

“No,” he answered, oddly out of breath.

“Alright,” Kamski squinted at him and walked past, settling down behind his table and beckoning him to come closer. When he did, Kamski turned to him, but his eyes drifted away toward the machine that’d brought Connor there. “It’s a bit complicated, the situation. The Department isn’t just going to let somebody that hasn’t been in a police academy work there.”

Well, to tell the truth, Connor really hadn’t ever been to one, but the fact that he was literally made to be a detective should’ve at least somewhat helped the case.

“I am perfectly qualified-“ He started, but Kamski immediately cut him off.

“I know that just fine, but you’re not gonna prove that to them without a diploma, and neither of us have the time to bother with putting you through some bloody academy.”

“Why not just tell them that I’m an android?” Connor was sure that a machine worker would evoke some negative responses within the DPD, but a few cops getting Gavin Reed-ed sounded much better than spending a few years in this place.

Kamski, meanwhile, looked completely horrified by the idea.

“Tell them you’re an android and that stirs up a whole new pot of questions that you nor me wouldn’t want to answer this soon. Even I don’t fully know how you work at the moment. Let’s not open that can of worms yet.”

“How else are you planning to solve this problem then?”

“Fake papers, if nothing else comes up.” Kamski shrugged, very unbothered by the idea of committing a crime while attempting to get one person into a law enforcement agency. It was Connor’s turn to be horrified. “Hey, it’s a last resort if your buddies from the future don’t help you out.”

“How would that happen? They don’t have official documents for me either, at least that I know of.”

“Then they better get to work.” The computer lit up, and Kamski opened up a dictaphone. “We have to get you in there as fast as possible, so sending them one more message is justifiable to me, even if it takes out electricity for a bit. I hope you’re not scared of the dark, Connor.”

He wasn’t.

 

* * *

 

It turned out to be much simpler than Connor expected. Kamski sent a voice message and got a response back almost immediately, in the form of a document he printed and promptly waved in glee in front of Connor’s face without letting him see the paper properly.

“It’s a reference,” Kamski let him know, pushing it carefully into a plastic case. “I don’t know why they didn’t just send a diploma, but I’m assuming it’s easier to get in this way.”

Connor put a hand up to his chin, trying to remember everything about how the police force employed rookies. “If you have a reference, they still check for diplomas. Yes, a good reference does make it easier to get in, but this might be a bit – well, impossible without confirmed graduation anyway.”

“If you have a reference, a diploma should be a given,” Kamski complained, sliding the case into one of his drawers, which, as Connor hadn’t noticed before, had been much less organized than the room itself. The desktop was nice and clean, but the drawers were overflowing with papers. “It proves you can do your job.”

“You can try and tell that to management.” Connor paused and took a guess, “Maybe they didn’t want to make a diploma because that’d be-“ he took a moment to glare in Kamski’s direction. “-That’d be faking papers.”

“Okay, Judge Judy. That thing right there, that’s not for making you just a police officer. It’s for getting you a title of a detective right off the bat. Imagine that you’re a newly-cooked investigator, and your department sent you to DPD for – practise. Or travelling. Change of scenery, whatever you want.”

“That’s very different from just applying for a job of a police officer, Mr Kamski.” Connor furrowed his brows in thought. “If that reference serves as an order from my home department, it might be all I need. I’ll obviously need to pass physical and social tests anyway, but the model should be realistic enough to get through it. However, I can’t just walk in, give them the reference and ask for a job with no earlier notice. I’m sure they’d anticipate a call from my superiors, among all things.”

“Now this is turning into a drama club.” Kamski flashed a mischievous grin. “I can’t say I don’t like it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Oh, he understood, alright. He just hoped it wouldn’t come to fraud, which he could already sense Kamski was planning.

“I might know people in Connecticut.” Yeah, it was coming to fraud. “Maybe I could convince them to do me a favour. Oh, look at me, breaking laws already. I don’t think you’re a very good influence on me, Connor.”

He squinted, a faint voice in his mind echoing Fowler’s offended _You’re having fun,_ this time at Kamski. It didn’t happen that long ago, why was it hard to remember?

“All due respect, but you looked elated at the opportunity.”

Kamski nodded in thought, the wicked smile never really fading away.

“Enough talking about what’s legal and what’s not.” _He want to get Connor into a job that prioritizes law, but he doesn’t want to talk about said law. Charming._ “We’re getting you in, then we’re finding you a partner for all that traditional ‘I’ll show you around’ business for the sake of realism. Maybe they’ll write a few reports to Connecticut on how you’re doing. That’d help me out, too.”

“In short, you’d like me under your watch at all times.”

“If you want to put it that way, yes.” Kamski tilted his head, his expression shifting into an unreadable white sheet. “Would you have a problem with that?”

Connor was slowly coming to terms with the fact that it was easy to remember that what he thought held no value here. It hadn’t for a long time, so cutting the short period that it did didn’t change his life much. It was maybe just a bit scary to realize that people wouldn’t at least try to agree with android-human equality during the time he was here.

Since he was going to pretend to be human, it didn’t make much of a difference, but Kamski knew he was a machine, and, to all his knowledge, just a really smart AI. No nice feelings included. And Connor was going to be considered only that again, a machine, a robot that simply held so much potential that Kamski wanted to track its every move – to understand the intelligence behind the being he aspired to create. Not the emotion. The code. The thought process.

“No.” Connor sounded calmer than he was, again.

“Great, we’re on the same page then.” Kamski rested his chin on his palm. “Care to tell me about your environment? So I can tell the Department a bit on who they’re sending away?”

Connor looked away from him, avoiding the mildly curious gaze. _If I’m asking you something, I’m going to be using that in some way, Connor._

 He couldn’t help but consider even the most innocent words from Kamski a masked threat. Maybe he was just going to show the police around his background, but Connor could recognize lots of types of people without giving it much thought – Kamski was one of the collectors, or so it seemed. A person who takes in as much useful information as they can, in as little time as they can. The owl in the corner, watching the room with no interest reflecting in their face. When called to attention, they will only learn more about the people they’re with.

It was exactly who Connor was build to be – a negotiator, if you will. There was little arguing (or fighting) with somebody that knew so much about you from a few words. Connor himself, though, was slowly drifting from that mindset outside the station ever since he’d discovered that wonderful and awfully infuriating little thing called emotional involvement.

So far Kamski oddly resembled more of an automated program than Connor was.

“I was working with the Detroit police, the same Department you’re sending me to now.” A general rule of thumb he had went as ‘if you don’t see how you can pick words carefully in this conversation, you’re not looking hard enough’, especially since Kamski definitely knew more about how robotic (i.e. – unsentimental) his androids were supposed to be than he was revealing to Connor. Deciding not to mention deviants, he simply said, “I was in the Homicide division.”

“Ah, death, that must’ve been exciting.”

“I had a partner.”

Connor fell silent. He didn’t really plan on saying that, but there, it had escaped him. It might’ve been a mistake, but Kamski didn’t seem to pay it much attention.

“So you’ll know how to work in a team, good. Although your social module probably took care of that, eh?” He looked up, amused.

“I’m- I’ll admit, I’m not very efficient regarding small-talk.”

“That makes two of us.” Kamski snorted, looking back down at the computer. He seemed to be looking something up – maybe the contacts of the police. To convince them to aid him in his adventure that was still very much illegal. Noticing Connor staring, he cleared his throat and questioned, “So, a partner.”

Maybe he really shouldn’t have stared.

“Yes, I was issued to act as a partner to a Lieutenant that had specific cases assigned to him. It happened to mostly be murders.”

“You aren’t very talkative when it actually comes to work, are you?” Kamski concealed a snicker, distracting himself with the computer again. “Maybe that police academy wasn’t actually a bad idea. Specific cases, were they?”

If he talked about his experiences with the deviant cases, he’d probably get Kamski to put God-knows-what into the androids he was going to create, eliminating every chance of their awakening and the revolution, successfully ruining their efforts in the future. It’d be as if Connor was taking their rights away himself. If he didn’t talk at all, Kamski _would_ definitely suspect something.

Even if he did let Connor know that there was a way to break out of Amanda’s control, that was a karma point to Kamski in 2038, not his younger version.

“Do you think they’ll put me in Homicide again?” He asked in hopes that Kamski would get pulled away from the topic at hand – it seemed to work, but he made a pause long enough to let Connor know that he wasn’t being fooled by any of his attempts. Connor himself hadn’t hoped for the distraction to work very well either, to tell the truth.

“Probably, if Connecticut tells them that you’re used to that.” Kamski shrugged in indifference, glancing away from the screen. “That’d be nostalgic for you, wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t know.”

That seemed to be an acceptable answer, since Kamski looked back at his computer again.

Connor used the silence to run a few quick calculations which let him know that Hank wasn’t yet a lieutenant, he wasn’t even part of the Red Ice Task Force in 2018. _It’d feel a bit strange to call him a detective_ , Connor thought, _if they happened to run into each other_. The entire concept of Hank being younger just... it felt off. Of course, it was illogical – humans matured and aged, but it was difficult for Connor to imagine Hank without, say, gray hair or a beard nonetheless.

“Okay, there it is. I’ll ring them, I should get a, hm, discussion scheduled in no time.” Kamski pulled out his phone and put in a number from the screen, staring at the wall absent-mindedly as Connor waited behind him, swaying from side to side in anticipation, listening to the continuous beeping from the device. Connor found more noise he didn’t like, then – it sounded like abrupt and screeching static. He had no idea why that was the default sound for humans to sit through while they’re waiting for a voice on the other end of the line. He imagined that the constant beeping would only make the wait all the more frustrating, no matter how short it should be.

Kamski jumped up from his chair the very second someone answered him, pushing it backwards with a little too much force. Connor stopped its wheels by sticking his foot in front of them without thinking so it wouldn’t fall down on the floor - that’d only make more noise. His eyes were still on Kamski, though, who paid no attention to the chair, waved his free hand vaguely in Connor’s direction – _be silent_ , it meant – and shuffled hurriedly to the other side of the room.

“Hi,” Connor heard him say, distance softening his tone more and more. “This is Elijah Kamski- is Oliver Easton available?”

Connor figured he could do something a bit more useful than listening to a phone call that was setting up another phone call, so, making use of Kamski’s distracted yet looming presence, he headed for the desk. Kamski would stop him if he was looking at something he didn’t want to be seen. Then, Connor would not only find out what could be intended to be hidden from him, but how much already is.

There were mostly concept sketches (upon further analysis, Connor made a deduction that, if he wanted, Kamski could become a pretty good artist), a few diagrams and, well, the desk itself had some dark spots all over. It was most likely coffee. That was a solid guess, but Connor was definitely not licking Kamski’s table to confirm it. He may have had his own methods of investigation, but he hadn’t sunk that low just yet.

That raised a question - did his oral sensors even work in this model? He was going to have to run a couple checks once he had a bit more time.

On the other hand, how much of his functionality had he really lost by being put in an older prototype? Now that he thought about it, that stumble he suffered when he was first activated seemed a bit more intimidating. Sure, Kamski said he shouldn’t experience something like that again, but even the mere idea of not being able to control himself to the fullest was scary.

He thought back to when he’d be rolling his coin across his knuckles, passing it from hand to hand with ease before getting to work. Could he do it now? It was a confirmation that he was always in perfect coordination. It was a reassurance – an _Everything is as it should be_ , expressed by the sound of a coin being thrown into the air. Sometimes he’d throw it harder than he wanted to, but he’d always catch it, before.

The pants Kamski had put on him didn’t have any pockets, Connor realized after attempting to slide his hand into one. Even if they would have, he didn’t know what he’d be looking for. Hank had taken away his coin, after all. Again.

Attempting to get rid of the sense of insecurity, Connor closed his eyes for a brief moment. Kamski’s voice was still just as silent, so Connor couldn’t really make out what he was saying, but he sure was spilling something out in a honeyed tone. Of course, no matter how friendly he was with this officer from Connecticut, this wasn’t going to be a walk in the park. Having them consider doing something illegal for a minor was admirable, even Connor thought so.

Well, there was no doubt Kamski could be very charming if he wanted to. And he was, after all, a genius running a company – even if said company was quite... tiny, it was the middle of the night and they were in a studio with dimmed lights _and_ the only other person here other than him was an android that would rather be somewhere else.

 _Hm._ One thing established – Connor should probably never try to run any sort of company, or be in any position which required optimism, at least.

He chuckled at the thought and leaned on the table, interest in Kamski’s sketches peaked by his improved mood.

It collapsed back in on itself again almost immediately, though, when the plastic surface of one of the files was darkened by his gray silhouette reflecting on it. It looked distorted and nothing like he’d seen in the mirror, but he could still clearly recall the paleness of his skin. He could still feel the smoothness of it and the lack of imperfections. How it looked like plastic and skin at the same time, making him somewhat resemble a human, but, well. Eerie. Unsettling.

Could mere likeness be enough to pass as a human, he wondered. He knew he could be one, really, judging from his behaviour. He breathed and he blinked, but forming opinions of others because of their appearance was such a human trait. _We don’t bleed the same colour_ , one of the anti-android slogans on Hank’s table read. Connor could remember him secretly tearing them off one by one when he thought nobody could see. It was endearing and strangely amusing to watch.

But today, for now, it did matter that they really didn’t ‘bleed the same colour’ – not only that, they didn’t look the same.

Kamski didn’t seem at all worried that he had built something a little more robotic than humane, so maybe Connor could pretend to be human and nobody would go out of their way to question it out loud. He hoped for that. But he also knew that was _designed_ to fit in, he was _designed_ to be authentic, and the sudden loss of it, this immediate change -  being stripped of his disguise - was only adding to his pile of alarms going off in his head, going off and screaming that something was wrong, something wasn’t going according to plan.

He’d get used to them, perhaps. This wasn’t going to take very long, was it?

 Lost in thought, he didn’t hear Kamski finishing his conversation, but he heard a phone being carelessly tossed onto the table and Kamski himself making his way to collapse in the chair.

Connor waited politely. He’d speak when he’d want to.

“If Easton wasn’t such a mischievous rascal, this would never have worked,” he snickered after taking a few seconds to relax, looking more and more like a cat in its favourite leisure spot. He looked up, catching Connor staring again. He explained, “He’s supposed to ring me in a few. We’ll have a talk – which way it’s gonna go, I have no idea, he just said that, ‘a talk’, you know, being cryptic for the sake of being cryptic.”

“Did he like your deal?”

“Deal?”

“There’s no way he just... agreed to do something like that because you asked him nicely.”

“You have to have more faith in humans, Connor.”

He tilted his head. Kamski chuckled at his still expression.

“Well, okay, you’re right, genius, but why bother, deal or not? He accepted. We’re gonna get you in without question, now.” He leaned on the table and bit down on his lip, closing his eyes for a second.

Then, he turned at Connor so sharply the android jerked back.

“Connor,” Kamski grabbed him by the elbows, the seriousness in his face reflecting on Connor’s. “One last thing about your job. I’d think this would go without telling, but it’s always better safe than sorry.”

“What is it?”

He squeezed a bit harder. “Whatever happens, don’t let them see your blood. They see your blood, it’s all over. Any situation that calls for blood loss, you backtrack. You backtrack so hard, Connor, put that above all other protocol, hear me?”

Connor pouted, looking away for a measly moment. It wasn’t an impossible task – he didn’t ever particularly like getting damaged, after all, but having no pain receptors made him able to risk a lot more with fewer consequences. He was pretty good at avoiding actual death, but not so remarkable at ignoring ‘ _LOSS OF THIRIUM’_ errors in the corner of his vision.

But hell if he wasn’t going to take this as a challenge. Hell if he wasn’t going to take this entire situation as just another challenge.

The corners of Connor’s mouth twitched up. Kamski was still waiting for an answer.

“I’ll try not to get shot too often, then.”

Kamski snorted, letting go of him and turning back to his computer.

“Don’t worry too much. I’ve heard paper towels are on sale this week.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kamski: look i understand that being a police officer is a dangerous business but if you die please die somewhere where people can't see you ktnx


	3. Hank & Connor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so so so much for your continuous feedback and support! your comments fueled my soul so hard that after reading them i ran back home and rocket launched myself at the computer after a week of not writing to implement all the ideas you've given me. you've helped this chapter a Lot!
> 
> ahh, also, note the chapter titles! they might look weird, i know, but they mean character p.o.v's. in this one, hank goes first and then it's all connor. yay for hanky perspective! i hate how many things you can get away with in the english language. stg.
> 
> ahh also i made antony deckart alive and an annoying sunshine so suck it daniel, can't shoot him yet can you

“Can you imagine the _trauma_ , the levels of _not okay_ , the _horror_ I went through?” Antony pressed, leaning over his desk. Allen, however, just grunted in acknowledgement, and, if Hank knew them, that just meant Antony had been chatting his ears out the entire morning. Just like, well, just like every single morning, really.

He was just told – unfairly, in his honest opinion – that he would be getting to work with a partner again. The last time he shared desks ended on a very unpleasant note, so he wasn’t exactly beaming with excitement, the opposite, really, which, again, to him, was a completely understandable reaction. And that’s why, heading from the captain’s office, he subtly attempted to go in as big of a circle as he could around his distressed colleagues, which, of course, knowing his luck, ended up a failed trick.

“Detective Anderson, sir!” Allen called, and Hank turned on his heel with the best acceptable forced workplace expression. He made his way over and sat down in an unoccupied chair by Antony’s table.

“What is it?”

Hank had to admit, Allen looked absolutely miserable. He was a growing workaholic if Hank ever saw one, and, no matter what talks anyone would give him, nothing could prove he slept more than five hours a day. Even his name was a gag at this point – since he flat-out refused to call any of them by their first names despite already working with them for a good few years, they just resorted to dubbing him ‘Allen’, too.

“Please take officer Deckart off my hands before I file a restraining order.”

Hank stifled a snicker. Maybe he could do with a bit of Antony’s complaining. That’d take his mind off that damn partnership he was being forced into.

“Hank,” Antony jumped at the chance. “You won’t believe this.”

“Don’t click-bait me in a face-to-face conversation.”

He took a breath and exclaimed, “I found my old teacher on Tinder.”

Hank raised an eyebrow and, realizing that this was all that Antony was losing his mind over (and, therefore, making Allen lose his mind over), wheezed so hard he had to hold his stomach. Well, high-school memories _are_ much better than battering himself about future co-workers, he thought, trying to catch a breath.

“God, Tony,” he managed, just glancing up before quickly hunching over again. “You better have swiped right on that. Fuckin’ imagine...”

“She’s _sixty-seven_!”

“You two are a package deal. Ugh...” Allen scowled and, visibly losing all hope to get any work done while they were there, looked at them over the monitor. “For one, I’d rather know why you were late.”

Hank leaned back and sighed.

“I’m not late, ever,” he corrected, fidgeting with his fingers. “When have I been late? Not once. That doesn’t happen.”

“No, but it doesn’t answer the question either.”

“Really, Hank, where were you?” Antony doubled, propping his head on his elbow. “Got yourself in trouble?”

“ _When_ do I _ever_ -“ Hank cut himself off and leaned forward, accusing, “What, you’re gonna team up on me now?”

Silence fell and his words were met only by curious faces, so he groaned, accepting defeat.

“Apparently I’m getting someone to work with, so I got a heads-up,” he announced in the most monotonous voice he could manage to really convey how much joy this situation had brought him, i.e., – none at all.

Antony, sadly, wasn’t very good at picking up vocal clues. “A partner!” He cocked his head to the side, thoughtful. “God, I hope I never have to work with someone from outside the station. I still get bloody lost here.”

“We’re well-aware,” Allen grumbled. He looked a tad more empathetic toward Hank. “Do you know them?”

“It’s some detective from Connecticut, that’s all they said.” Hank looked up at the ceiling. “So, sadly, Tony, while you might not be getting subjected to that, oh, torturous fate, I am,” he bit at the officer dryly. “Please just fuckin’ can it, or I’ll be the one you’ll need to fire an order against.”

And Antony did can it. For about half a minute. He yelled, just when Hank was about to head to his own desk:

“You know what would be cool?”

“Jesus Christ...” Hank dove to his chair and turned at him. “What would?”

“Giving him a tour. Or else both of us will get lost.”

Hank could sense his face twisting. “I am absolutely _not_ giving anyone tours. I’m not a babysitter.”

“Nah, nah, you’d rather let your partner wander the halls for days, eh?” Antony winked and immediately turned to his own computer so Hank couldn’t openly flip him off.

“Oh, just go and take out your teacher,” Hank murmured, patting the keyboard a few times until the monitor lit up and he dug into the database. He was in no particular rush to find out when his partner would be getting there, and he was sure someone would tell him either way.

He wasn’t wrong.

After a few hours of flipping through papers and feeling like his pupils were going to bleed out and roll down his face like raindrops (a daily experience, to tell the truth), Ben hit him on the shoulder lightly while passing by and let him know that new flesh was in and talking to the captain currently, and he should probably go and see how it’s going.

At that point, Hank was almost glad he was getting something as a distraction, but, reminded what the distraction was, he took a breath and leaned on the back of the chair, taking a few seconds to make sure his eyes didn’t look like he was just smoking weed.

The walk to the office took way less time than he would’ve liked, but there was really no reason for stalling, so he just knocked unenthusiastically and walked right in. As you do.

“Afternoon,” he greeted before he could even close the door.

Captain Bulwark – often poked at because of his name and attitude, never straight to his face, however – didn’t look all that pleased at Hank not waiting to be called it. In front of his table stood a man well-younger than him- or maybe it was the softness of his face making it look like that. Either way, Hank put two and two together and walked up to stand next to his new partner.

He looked, well, a bit like Allen – white as hell, freakishly white, like he hadn’t been outside since he’d been born. Maybe he hadn’t indeed, Hank thought grimly. Police work doesn’t allow for much free time, and this guy looked like he hadn’t intended on taking any. If Hank squinted really hard, he probably could’ve assumed he had a vampire archetype on his hands.

The man also looked a bit nervous, judging not from his overall expression, but from the way his eyes were running around – to him, then to Bulwark, down to his shoes rhythmically, like a robot put on repeat. Still, it seemed that he felt much better than he looked – unlike Hank, he probably was anticipating having a partner, or maybe the change of scenery. Either way, Hank was greeted with a smile and a nod and begged anything and everything holy that this guy didn’t turn out to be a younger version of Tony and insist on sending him long-dead memes via Whatsapp when he got drunk.

“Alright, Anderson, if you’re here, you can take this over. I’ve done my part already.” Bulwark laced his fingers together. ”Just, unless necessary, it’d be better if you two stayed in the station for today, and tomorrow you can get moving. Rope him in, yadda yadda.”

“I’m not against that,” Hank shrugged, and, remembering Tony’s earlier chattering, hurried to ask, “Do I really gotta show him around?”

Bulwark raised an eyebrow. Obviously, that wasn’t in any protocol, but Hank just wanted to be absolutely sure he would not, in fact, be required to be a babysitter.

“That’s up to you, I suppose?” _Ah, not needed, then. Thank the gods_. “I’ll let you introduce yourselves,” Bulwark ended, waving a hand dismissively – outside, it meant.

“Well, isn’t he a busy man, must be drowning in all that paperwork,” Hank commented on Bulwark’s document-free desk the second he was sure the captain wouldn’t hear him, and the new guy did his best to make a snort sound like coughing. Hank glanced over his shoulder. The man had caught up with him and was looking around like he (suspiciously) already knew the place. “So, you gonna tell me a name or somethin’?”

“My name’s Connor,” he said, and his voice was just as soft as his face. Honestly, he almost looked like a teenager. Pretty tall and all, but still. Not a stubble on his chin didn’t help it, either.

“And you’re a detective already?” Hank asked, already knowing the answer. Okay, maybe belittling his new partner wasn’t the best way to start a relationship, but, in his defense, Connor didn’t seem to mind. _Ah, so he was a bit like Tony._

“Unless my resume had developed sentience and decided that I was better at my job than I am, it sure says that.” He looked over at the tables and stopped in place, right on Tony and Allen.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’ve got social anxiety.” Hank crossed his arms and followed his gaze. “They’re not that bad.”

‘They’, meanwhile, had already noticed the two, and Antony raised a hand in greeting, but, thankfully, didn’t start shouting across the room. _Yeah, they’re not that bad._

“I don’t,” Connor answered, eyes fixed firmly on Tony. “Social anxiety, I mean. I don’t have social anxiety.”

“I’m gonna pretend I’m convinced, and you do your thing,” Hank snorted and headed for his desk, and, surely enough, footsteps followed. He ignored them like an expert, sitting down and reaching for the keyboard again.

It’s not that he particularly disliked this Connor now that he’d met him, he’d decided. The guy didn’t even seem like too annoying of a person. Neither was he one of the pricks that took themselves oh-so-seriously and got ticked off by any remotely mocking thing sent their way. He didn’t know how well Connor would do his job, but, since Bulwark had enlightened Hank in quite the astonished tone that his new partner absolutely nailed all of the testing, he assumed he wasn’t a detective for nothing.

It was fun, though, playing on rookies’ patience. Convincing them this would be a hellhole to work in and then leaving them wondering why the hell is everyone suddenly so decent of human beings by the time their second month dawns. Hank chuckled to himself. By his third week, a good few years ago, poor Allen would be ready to go into heart arrest whenever somebody would even address him. He couldn’t believe policemen weren’t perfectly disciplined machines.

 _Honestly, buddy_ , he recalled one of them saying, _have you read the news at least once the past decade?_

Connor, however, wasn’t a rookie. Obviously. That didn’t mean they weren’t going to slowly drive him to the verge of insanity – more as a bonding exercise than anything else – but whether he was going to take any shit from them was a whole different question.

Either way, the first thing Hank discovered was that Connor was absolutely determined to claim the title of the most stubborn son of a bitch in the department while not even being from the same state. While Hank was dutifully pretending to be very busy with an empty form he had to fill in from yesterday’s scene, every normal person would’ve just cleared their throat or something and asked where they would work, but oh no, Connor clearly wasn’t a normal person.

He just loomed over Hank’s shoulder patiently, eyes filled with great curiosity scanning the room. Hank didn’t want to guess whether he was challenging him or simply that oblivious.

With a groan of defeat for the second time in a single morning, Hank pointed at a desk in front of him.

“That one’s empty.”

“So I thought.” There was no masked sarcasm in his voice. None. Yes, Hank concluded, he was, in fact, simply that oblivious.

He didn’t have much with him, either, a phone with a dead battery and a plastic bottle filled with blue liquid, which drew Hank’s attention. Promising himself that there would be a time and place for shenanigans (technically, it was the perfect time, but Hank was curious and curiosity was a good excuse, damn it), he asked:

“Is that the thing sportsmen drink?” His nose scrunched up. “Or they don’t, and it’s just stupid advertisement.”

“Yes,” Connor answered vaguely and reached for the ‘on’ button with one hand while knocking the bottle off the table and into a drawer with the other. “It doesn’t do much for taste, but it does a fine job keeping me awake.”

“Coffee can do the same for less,” Hank sneered, fingers running over the keyboard without him even thinking about it. “And that thing looks like something straight out of a lab. Took one look at it when I first saw it and decided that no matter how much I’ll want to end my life, my tombstone won’t have ‘Choked on Gatorade’ written on it.”

Connor awkwardly shifted in his chair, and, when Hank glanced up, he saw that he’d looked away from the screen. Hank decided that maybe not all people were as comfortable with ‘Life is horrible, God is dead and the only thing preventing me from killing myself is a subtle vine reference every now and again‘ humour as they were and that he probably should deal it down a bit. 

He felt just a bit too guilty to start acting condescending now, so he gave an apologetic shrug and dove into work, and, soon enough, Connor was flipping through documents borrowed from his pile, familiarizing with the cases and occasionally asking for clarification.

During the following few hours, Hank made a few more conclusions about his new partner, and he was, surprisingly, not as disappointed as he had thought he’d be. In fact, he wasn’t disappointed at all, considering Connor either just was a decent human being, or plotting to have all of them trust him and then stab them in the back, but, honestly, the latter outcome was just one of Hank’s ‘no one is stopping you from stapling your arm. Do it. Just to see what happens’ thoughts (the official term was apparently ‘intrusive’, but he just didn’t know what about the sudden realization that he could, theoretically, start screaming at any point in his life was intrusive).

Either way, so far, Connor wasn’t anything more than an honest person here to do his job, and Hank couldn’t have been more okay with Connecticut’s choice of detectives. He had found out, among  other things, that Connor was quick to point out mistakes, didn’t sugar-coat anything and took jokes that could’ve been written off as borderline insults way too well. He found out the most during lunch – that Connor felt off enough during conversations that he didn’t just say everything he had on his mind, but not so anxious as to barely stutter through. He looked surprised about the wrong things, like empty desks and blank name tags. He was always oddly aware of what time it was no matter when you asked him, and he didn’t eat at all.

“God forbid you see a purse thief,” Antony laughed at him right after introduction. “They’ll blow you away with a flick of his finger.”

Hank also suspected that Connor wasn’t very good at catching on to humour, so he’d just stare with glass eyes and, when he guessed it was appropriate, force a polite laugh. It was a good one for a fake, but when you went to as many interrogations as Hank did, you learned to be not only a good actor, but also a pretty good human lie detector.

All that in a day – granted, Hank would probably reveal all the ways he can smack someone in a few hours too, if subjected to constant questions from Tony that he’d have to try and understand while Allen talked over him, telling him to leave the poor guy the fuck alone.  Connor handled their testing rather well, though, even if ‘handling it well’ mostly consisted of learning from Allen and just humming something vague to reply to most questions given.

 Eventually it turned out that Connor probably had more patience than Hank altogether, or maybe he was just more polite. Either way, in the end Hank made a deal – Tony can either keep interrogating, or he can keep his kneecaps. Tony promptly threw his hands up and, scooting back to his desk, kept muttering about how he can’t even enjoy the days when he doesn’t have much paperwork. Connor kindly offered to lend him some of theirs, in response to which the muttering stopped immediately, mutual relief – and understanding – flashed between him and Hank, and the latter decided that maybe he wouldn’t hate partnership as much as he initially thought he would.

As the clock slowly approached six – day shifts usually ended at eight – Hank remembered the blue Gatorade, hidden in the upper drawer.

“Don’t you have any more stuff?”

Connor looked up from the crime scene photos he was examining. For someone who’d been browsing stacks of those for the past few hours, he looked a bit too energetic.

“I didn’t think bringing my entire desk at once would be a good idea,” he explained, unblinking.

Hank shrugged, secretly siding with him. If he needed to make a first impression, he probably wouldn’t barge in with two travelling bags in each hand, either. He watched, resting his eyes from the bright screen, as Connor looked down to the printed pictures again. It was an aftermath of a scene made, quite flashily, by football hooligans in a park, nothing they hadn’t seen before. But it didn’t seem like Connor treated property damage any less seriously than a murder.

“Harvey-Junction Park,” He murmured under his breath. “I’ve never been there.” Suddenly jerking like he was waking up from a dream, he glanced over the computer. “Of course, I haven’t been to a lot of places in Detroit,” he admitted, giving a sheepish smile. “But I should’ve probably studied some maps before I came here, at least.”

“Yeah, well, by the end of the week you’ll have been to enough scenes to have the entire city carved into the back of your skull, I can promise you,” Hank snorted.

Connor made an absent-minded gesture, _If you say so_ , and squinted one of the blurrier photos. The last couple of hours passed mostly in silence, and, before either of them knew it, their first day was gone.

Even if they’d already found out Connor could pinpoint the time pretty accurately, give or take five minutes, now he seemed like he didn’t want to. Hank had an odd feeling that if he hadn’t yawned and pointed out that they could’ve gone home fifteen minutes ago, Connor would’ve sat there for the entire night, eyes fixed on the pictures and documents and forms that had already flooded his desk, as they always do.

“Okay,” Connor replied softly to Hank’s _Gonna scram now_ and just flipped a scene description.

“What, did they give you 24 hours or something?” Hank questioned, squinting at some broken vase in a photo over Connor’s shoulder.

For the second time, he looked like he was shaken awake.

“No, no,” he rushed, sliding the paper back on the desk and jumping up from the chair so abruptly it rolled back. He pushed it to the table and took his bottle out of the drawer. Looking like a guilty kid, he explained, “I wanted to finish looking over these before I went home.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re a nerd.” Hank raised an eyebrow, not sure whether he should wait or not. Oh, whatever, they were the last two people from the day shift there anyway.

“Depends what you’d consider a nerd.” Connor soon followed him out, and Hank was, truth to be told, a bit surprised at how well he navigated around the entire station. Getting outside was easy, but inside the place? It was like a maze. When he first came around, he’d always take a few wrong turns on his way to the canteen or some other place, and Jeffrey solemnly swore to never let him forget about any of those times.

Cold picked at Hank’s face, but that’s what his scarf was for. He pitied Connor for his lack of appropriate clothing (a jacket) a bit  – but only a bit. When you go to Michigan, you pack a coat, and if you forget, well, at that point, it’s just natural selection.

Under the yellow light of the streetlamps, Connor looked even paler than before. Hank had almost grown accustomed to it through the day, but the contrast with the outside colours brought it out again.

“If I can ask, what’s up with your skin?”

There was a pause. Connor didn’t look upset, but Hank didn’t know whether he was capable of looking upset in the first place.

“What’s wrong with it?” He replies with a question, quite innocently, and Hank feels like he’s being mocked, but, for the second time today, he’s curious, so mockery be damned.

“It looks like you take bleach showers, no offense.”

“That’s exactly what I do,” Connor said without missing a beat, and Hank choked. Maybe he’d decided to cut back on the death humour too fast.

“No, but really,” he managed.

“Yes, really, it’s the bleach showers,” Connor insisted, and Hank gave it up to instead try and control his breathing. It was a pretty hilarious mental image, there was no denying it.

Having finally composed himself, he said goodbye with a nod.

“Tomorrow starts the scene trips. I’d bring a few bandages if I were you.” He couldn’t resist some (only partially incorrect) intimidation, because, well, who could.

They parted, but Hank still burst into a few fits of giggles on the way home.

 

* * *

 

 

Connor felt like Kamski’s restroom door didn’t deserve the hard slam he gave it, but, in all honesty, he hadn’t been that stressed in his entire lifespan, ever. Short as it may be, it was anything but uneventful. Lure a deviant holding a hostage from a ledge? Borderline parkour through what felt like an entire botanic museum? Sprint through a highroad, chasing escapees, all while attempting to avoid vehicles going left and right at top speed? Figuring out months of detective work on a timer that’s about to go off in a couple of minutes? He could do that. Stressfully, but he could.

Act like he didn’t know anyone, smile at people who he knew for a fact would die within 20 years, and try to balance himself between ‘emotional creature made out of flesh and blood that was not blueberry Gatorade-coloured’ and ‘a robot with a calculator in his head who’s just trying to do his job’? Never again. If faced with the same opportunity, he’d probably go to Markus and politely tell him that if he wants to save his species, he’s gonna have to sit in that dreadful execution chair, as he’d dubbed it, himself.

Over the past day, Connor had come to terms with the fact that the part of his brain that was responsible for attaching names to people, whichever one it might be, was a total and complete bitch. He knew what was coming with Hank, so, while waiting outside Bulwark’s office, he kept murmuring “Detective Anderson, Detective Anderson” under his breath maybe a few hundred times to override habit, but, no matter how much he bugged himself with it, a few “Lieut-“s still slipped, although he was quite good at conveniently choking on air or blaming it on some none-existent lieutenant “back in Connecticut”. Anderson was a pretty common name, after all.

He wasn’t really one for talking about common last names, though, considering he technically had none – or, well, he did now, in theory. Kamski was awfully determined to make his surname reference some sort of joke (like suggesting Raven and asking whether he could swim – Connor didn’t understand what was so funny, and he wasn’t sure he particularly wanted to), and, when questioned numerous times whether he was taking this seriously, Kamski just looked up some baby naming website. Connor found himself wondering whether all teenagers were like this or if this was a mentality reserved only to geniuses.

From outside the bathroom came a voice that clearly belonged to one of said geniuses who was attempting not to start laughing.

“Seems like even robots hate their jobs right after the first day, hm?”

Connor took a breath – more of a habit (ugh) than anything else, and walked out.

“No, I-” he stopped while he was ahead, deciding that telling Kamski about his frustration probably wasn’t the best choice, and just went with whatever rolled off the tongue. “I ran damage checks.” Blatant lying, but hey, blatant lying that was, in his opinion, believable. “I didn’t receive any warnings, but it’s better to be safe than sorry in this situation, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kamski picked at his face absent-mindedly, not even really paying attention to – or doubting - his excuse, and Connor noticed pulled-up goggles that were partially covered by his hair. He was sure they weren’t there when he returned from the station. He didn’t really know why the set him off so, but it could’ve just been the image of Kamski he’d formed through their brief meeting in his mansion in – the present time? Present future time? He still wasn’t sure of the terminology. He wasn’t sure there _was_ terminology.

Either way, the Kamski he was a bit more familiar with wasn’t this one, although working clothes and protective gear wasn’t anything unreasonable, if Connor really thought about it. Kamski didn’t always have machinery to build up his androids from scratch. There was something a bit different about his teenage self, and, even if Connor knew that from the moment he really saw him, he kept finding new differences.

Kamski loudly running his fingers across the desk snapped him out of his thoughts.

“Easton called,” he said, staring at the black screen of his computer. Connor remembered that Easton – the police officer, supposedly, who Kamski struck a deal with to get Connor into DPD. Silence lingered for a bit, and Connor figured asking about it would be in order.

“What did he say?”

“That you did well on the testing, or something like that. He heard back from the Department.” He squinted, in thought. “A report, of a sort. I should work out a way to get them to send those to me directly, but, until then, I guess playing telephone will work.” Swinging his crossed legs onto the table, he threw his head back to stare Connor down over the top of the chair.

No matter how short his stay had been, Connor had already realized his mistake – Kamski was much less robotic than he thought at first. Sure, the first impression still stood pretty firm: he wasn’t the most outgoing of people, preferred to spend more time alone than sharing someone’s company (Connor didn’t count, as he wasn’t even considered a real person at that point) and, as Connor eventually found out, he loathed phone calls with a passion. When Connor suggested that he could get his reports straight from Connecticut via live talking as that was more convenient than waiting for chain mails or something, Kamski looked quite a bit like a cat with all hairs standing up in horror. Still, those were mostly human qualities, and not the only ones – he apparently liked two of his three deactivated androids in the living room better than the last one, explaining his preference to Connor with reasoning that the disliked android was, quote, ‘a right dick’, he had a tendency to stop looking at the clock while he was working, and he couldn’t sit up straight for long, shifting and shifting in his seat.

And now, having moved to a more comfortable position (even though Connor couldn’t understand how twisting his back like that would be enjoyable even in the slightest), he put a pencil to his lip, piercing right through Connor’s hypothetical soul with wide eyes.

“How were the tests?” He questioned. “Easy, I’d imagine?” Of course they were. _How did you deal with them_ , he meant.

“They weren’t exactly tests,” Connor avoided a straight answer, choosing to look somewhere else. “More like check-ups. If Connecticut had sent them recommendations, they wouldn’t have refused me either way.”

Kamski nodded, rocking the chair back and forth so slowly it was barely noticeable. Connor pressed his lips together without realizing it.

“I made sure to appear skilled, but I took note of human error. Although,” he confessed, disappointment dyeing his voice, “The physical testing, I’ve done better.”

“That’s reasonable.” Kamski shrugged, not at all upset by the questionable functionality of the model he’d built. “I told you that you wouldn’t get your perfectly coordinated movement back right off the bat, didn’t I?”

“I’m assuming I’m not going to have a lot of time to focus on improving that.” Connor was just voicing his exact thoughts at that point. “If you want to run more physical tests on me during the night and I spend the day in the police station, there’s not really much I can do about it.”

“It’s not that much of a problem though, is it?” Kamski flashed a smile. “Chase a criminal, why don’t you? Return a purse to an old lady or something.”

Connor raised an eyebrow. Admittedly, that was such a Hank gesture it hurt.

“To catch a criminal, I’d need to catch up to one first, and then still have enough in me to take them down. And for that, I’d need combat skill,” he noted dryly, and that was also absolutely something Hank would say. Oh no.

Kamski looked amused.

“I’ll see if I can find a module or a chip of some kind,” he chuckled, reaching to turn on the computer.  “If you rush me, though, I might just order some plastic from Amazon, and I don’t think that’ll serve for long. However,” the smile disappeared. “It might do you good to use the biocomponents more, so they’ll stretch and fit better for physical work. Do police stations have training grounds or something like that?”

“Not-- Not necessarily.” Connor hesitated. He didn’t really need to keep himself sharp for the short durations of time he was active in the DPD, although now that would probably change. Either way, he didn’t know much, but it was enough to enlighten Kamski a bit. “Some do, but police stations mostly make contracts with local schools or arenas to use their stadiums. Naturally, I couldn’t just go running whenever I wanted, but in 2038 they hold mandatory physical tests in some kind of school every six months or so. It might be once a year right now, I wasn’t informed, but annual tests used to be more wide-spread than-“

“-So,” Kamski cut him off, and Connor felt a little sting of pride in his chest. When an android answered a question, they usually told everything they knew. He still wasn’t sure how human he should appear to Kamski, but it was kind of safer to assume that exhibiting easily spottable signs of deviancy wasn’t the best approach. “I take it, you’re gonna have to wait at least a few months before you can go sparring with someone, right?”

“Tests most commonly take place in spring months, so the interval could more closely be from a week to a month, but it’s better not to be too optimistic.” Now that he really thought about it, the tests DPD put him through (those he allegedly ‘aced’) weren’t the same ones police officers went through twice a year. He was tested mostly on weapon handling and protocol, and regular tests consisted of checking the officer’s speed, endurance and overall capability. He hadn’t been through those, and, even though he knew he could do equally well as his human co-workers and probably better, he still would’ve preferred knowing more in theory.

He made a mental note to ask Hank for a few details under the excuse that he’d heard CPD and DPD tests were a bit different before he remembered another thing Kamski probably should know.

“Gun practise isn’t the same thing as regular testing.” Unlike testing, he’d actually been to gun practise a few times. It was mostly out of sheer lack of things to do, so he’d tag along with Hank and usually piss him off quite a bit, considering it was a bit easier for him to aim than a human. “It happens more often, too, so I could probably get into that sooner than physical tests.”

“I’m sure that you can aim just fine,” Kamski said, resting his head on his hands, eyes closed. He seemed much less disturbing when he wasn’t trying to look through Connor, oddly. He was a child, after all, even if he didn’t sound like one. A child that was mature for his age, that much was easy to tell, but there were some things a 15-year-old wouldn’t easily grow out of, even a technical genius and all. Kamski had gone through a university, but he still didn’t seem to realize that overworking existed as something you should be aware of outside of TV shows and awareness books. Kamski and Hank were unsurprisingly different, there was no disagreeing with that, but this Kamski, if he dared to say, was a bit more similar to the Hank Connor left in the future than the Hank of this time.

He probably shouldn’t make that comparison.

“I haven’t tried yet,” he reminded, glancing down at his pale fingers. During the checks, weapon handling didn’t require him to actually shoot in a range. “It’s better to find out how much of my ability got transferred along with my conscious.”

“The speed might be different, but I don’t think you’ve lost that entirely.” Kamski sighed, eyes still closed. “But, have it your way, just don’t waste any good time.”

“I won’t.”

Suddenly, he perked up as if startled and asked, “Can you go to the range alone?”

“Not really, unless it’s important.” Connor shook his head. “As I said, it’s like testing – only it happens more often.”

“That’s lame.” Kamski settled down again, but he resorted to watching Connor again. Connor shifted, uncomfortable. “Well, at least you’ll have time for other things if you’re not walking around playing a gun simulator.”

“Other things?”

“Practise.” He shrugged. “Challenge a police officer to a duel to the death. Or something.”

“A duel to the death,” Connor echoed, biting back a snort.

“Yeah, whatever you think will help.” Kamski muttered, clearly about to ask about something that had more significance to him. “Remember that bit about robots hating their jobs, I was only partially joking. I wanted to know how you react to unusual circumstances.”

“If I might remind you, having police duties isn’t an unusual situation to a model of my type.”

“This one is,” he cut him off firmly, and took a second to explain. “Well, maybe not entirely unusual, but it’s definitely not the norm for you if you have to play human.” He looked up for clarification. “You didn’t have to do that when you were, err, in the future, right?”

“I didn’t have to hide my identity, no.” Connor nodded. “It was absolutely normal for an android to be doing human work.”

Well, some street protesters would’ve disagreed with him quite strongly, but he knew he wasn’t really wrong, after all. Apart from those directly affected, before Markus’ revolution, most people saw androids as cheaper replacements for employees and more efficient labour-wise, considering their lack of human error. It was strange, now that he had to account for it to come off as a normal worker.

There was an odd glint in Kamski’s eye that Connor saw just before he turned away, and it was understandable. It was definitely some compliment that his inventions are so popular in the future that they were seen as a regular every day object.

For some time, Connor would have to fix his own thoughts from referring to himself as an object. He knew he wasn’t just that, but just knowing wasn’t enough to erase most of his basic programming. It was _annoying_.

“Yeah. That.” Kamski seemed to be busy printing something out. When Connor leaned forward just a bit to see better, he subconsciously inched closer, blocking the android’s view. Whether that was a hint or not, Connor decided it’d be better not to take guesses. “So, I’d probably get better results questioning you myself rather than basing everything on reports, but more data is always better than less.”

“You’re still going to question me?”

Kamski looked up, a bit surprised at the question.

“Yeah, why not? It’s not like I get that much sleep anyway.” He turned back at the printer, carefully pressing the papers together and feeling the warmth, which Connor assumed was a natural human instinct, considering how many people he’d seen doing it. “Daytime naps are rather underrated, you know.”

It’s not like Connor hadn’t expected it, the questioning. No, he probably expected that the _most_ , but it still didn’t make it, well, worthy of anticipation.

Of course, the fact that wasn’t the type of questioning CyberLife performed made it a bit better (it wasn’t even questioning, really, just peeling off a few memories from his scalp and looking through, as you do, with technology they’d had for years, but Kamski hadn’t even thought of yet), but it was going to have at least some resemblance to the type of mind games Amanda used to play before he shut her off, and, well, _that_ Amanda didn’t exactly have the warmest spot in his heart. And, after all, Kamski was the one who designed her. Connor didn’t know how much similarities she shared with the real Amanda Stern, but he could guess that, since she was modelled by her student, it was a mix of the two of them. Still, that didn’t make it very pleasant, even if Connor knew Kamski, unlike Amanda, didn’t have access to every single thing he did that day.

Well, if he wanted to, technically, he would, but that’d require Connor to be taken apart, and Connor hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He could remember Hank saying that if Kamski destroyed him, they wouldn’t send another android, and he dryly replied that maybe Kamski “wouldn’t need another”, but looking through just one day hopefully wasn’t enough to figure out the vital difference between Connor and the androids Kamski had already built.

Self-preservation kicking in might’ve been a nice way of being able to tell that he’s not just a machine, but, oh, he so could’ve done without the distant yet constant worry that Kamski could decide to put his head on an anvil.

So far, it didn’t seem like he didn’t have any intention of doing so. Connor preferred to think that Kamski would at least let him know if he did. He didn’t know what he’d do, exactly, considering he didn’t really want to be taken apart, but he couldn’t just go jump out a window and escape either.

Oh, whatever. He wasn’t experiencing that type of dilemma just yet, why bother himself with it?

Kamski, in the meantime, had stopped mindlessly chewing on the eraser sitting on top of his pencil, and had his legs on the table again, watching Connor with unhealthy amounts of anticipation in his face.

“Are you gonna stand there for the entire night?” He asked, eyeing the free chair by the desk to give Connor a hint, somewhat.

“You have that many questions?” Connor placed the chair closer and sat down, lacing his fingers together on the cool surface. It was nice, being able to feel temperature. The sun, sometimes. The snow – if he squeezed a snowball enough, he’d get the illusion of a burning sting in his palm. The warmth of skin. Not his skin, but...

He would’ve noticed he was getting a lot of thoughts out of the blue recently, if he’d paid more attention to them.

“Oh, the only thing that prevented me from writing more was the fact that I don’t think either of us have enough time.” Kamski shrugged, resorting to tapping his pencil on his thigh.

“If I may ask, how much do you sleep?” Connor tilted his head. It’s not that he was concerned, he wasn’t, not really, considering Kamski had survived quite enough. What he was, though, was curious – just how much of Kamski’s time was spent devoting himself to his work at this age and what he was sacrificing because of it.

“Enough,” he replied easily. Lied easily, to be more accurate. “Now, if you would-“

“Three and a half hours a day is not really enough,” Connor pointed out, taking a well-measured guess. He wasn’t sure why he was annoying his own (to-be) creator. Maybe he should’ve searched for an answer in his deviancy. Either way, Kamski also probably deserved to be reminded of his own mortality before he tried to play god, and, well, the look on his face told Connor that his comment, although maybe not completely accurate, hit somewhere close.

“You know what?” Kamski squinted, surprisingly not annoyed at all, as if the only thing he’d ever done had been listening to people telling him about his own unhealthy habits. “You’re absolutely right. But, you know when you’ll be able to lecture me? When _you_ start sleeping a good eight hours a day. Do you sleep eight hours a day, Connor?”

“No. I don’t sleep at all.”

“See?”

“The fact that I’m an android should probably—“

“Excuses, excuses.” He waved his hand dismissively, and that was to be the end of it, but Connor was a deviant with an evident amount of social issues and he did not want to call an ambulance when Kamski unavoidably passes out from exhaustion. Absolutely not.

Kamski, however, stacked his papers on his legs and put the pencil to the surface.

“We have no time for this. I told you already.” Kamski smiled, and it was a smile of an interrogator, and Connor could recall seeing those identical smiles on dozens of different faces. “Daytime naps are really rather underrated.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ancient ancestor goblins, each looking down on me with one (1) unblinking eye, their gaze cold and emotionless: write 1k for this fic daily or you'll forever be a disappointment to your entire family  
> me, sobbing, holding 119 grammatically incorrect, barely legible words, 3 lithuanian swearwords, 78 open tabs on body language, desperately trying to characterize kamski in a way that feels Right: p,,,p lea se,,, Lord Brain,,, l...load w.w.w ord


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